


Desire, Caution

by palettesofrenaissance



Series: Caution trilogy [2]
Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Bisexual Peter Parker, Bittersweet Ending, College, College Student Peter, College Student Peter Parker, Dom/sub Undertones, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fingerfucking, Friends to Lovers, Hanukkah, Light Dom/sub, Oral Sex, Past Sexual Assault, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Relationship Discussions, Sex Toys, Submissive Michelle Jones, Thanksgiving, and also peter's inner conflicting thoughts with what has happened, and what he always thought should happen, but this still has plot, do not blame me, dominant peter parker, now listen, such as, tags to be added as the rest of the chapters come out, this is continuing the challenge to see how nsfw I could write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:33:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21626122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palettesofrenaissance/pseuds/palettesofrenaissance
Summary: Michelle tries to defend herself to a friend: "It's not like I'm...I'm dickmatized or something.""No, not dickmatized. It's, uh, lickmatized, I think it's called. You're definitely lickmatized."[ ALTERNATIVELY - the sequel toLust, Caution— when Peter passes by Michelle’s room door left slightly open one night and catches her masturbating and he loses his shit. ]
Relationships: Michelle Jones/Peter Parker
Series: Caution trilogy [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1584400
Comments: 28
Kudos: 126





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Hi all! It's been forever since I uploaded anything original and since this fic contains events of Thanksgiving I thought why not add to the holiday feasting with some smut._  
>    
> _This has been brewing in my documents for months now. But first we shall start it off with a male "alone time scene" (Peter) because it's equality. /s_

_Two weeks ago_

Nothing about this is _too_ new of an area. Because— _besides the fact_ Michelle has dated before, has formulated a history that sorely doesn't include floppy-haired, round-eyed young men and she's become familiar in the careful arts of dating; and likewise there is a very small number of individuals whom Peter has been involved with, and he and MJ have even talked about their experiences before with each other because they’re _best friends_ , so _why wouldn’t they_ , right? They're longtime friends. Close friends. The closest of friends.

Then why does Peter feel absolutely crestfallen when thinking about every man that's been with her?

Because he and Michelle have been friends for years is exactly _why_ her breathy moans are traitorous and can't vanish from his mind, replaying in his ears at first with stupor and then with fascination, a stirring in his stomach and causing a tingle down to his fingertips. And then with _obsession._

He knows precisely why.

Peter shakes his head to clear his thinking and return to sleep that had just grabbing him. The tightening of his pajama pants put a major stop in his plans by causing discomfort and directing his attention and priorities elsewhere.

Tonight, the memory of his best friend’s breathy moans and whispered calls replay in his head until Peter has one hand wrapped around his hardening length and the other clenching the pillow beneath his head. Eyes closed, he conjures a fantasy of his best friend that is most certainly more than _a little friendly._ He bites his lip and works his hand in a way that he wishes wasn’t his own—feels himself heavy and thickening, growing in his palm; a high-pitched whine pulls from deep within his throat when he slides his hand up to rub a thumb around the head. He catches his breath, gulps once, and curses into the night for his lack of precaution. His college roommates are nowhere near asleep: one staying up late to study, another has his video game volume loud and commanding orders over a headset.

It’s eight days after _the incident_ and in the cover of night and beneath his bed’s blankets, Peter touches himself at the memory of walking in on Michelle’s hands between her legs and _his name_ falling out in wanton pleas. He pictures her gently parted mouth faintly witnessed that night in her dimly city-light-lit bedroom. He imagines her moistened fingers and his body temperature increases. And still, he can’t help his hand tightens momentarily in subconscious routine, his breathing growing shallow. He thinks of her silhouette illuminated by that night and his imagination fills in the rest: he imagines her lips, round and moist; he imagines the curve of her breasts, pert nipples pebbled through her shirt, and imagines feeling them against his chest. And still, he can’t help himself as he sits straighter as his hand starts working himself faster, firmer, and his other tightening his hold on his pillow, as his eyelids grow heavy and his vision spaces out.

In the dark, Peter squirms in his bed, biting his lip when a noise tries creeping past his lips. Suddenly he's too hot for the layers he's wearing and removes his hand from his pillow to run through his hair once, twice, pulls at the back and his mouth falls open, it causing _tingles_ to shoot directly to his groin.

He imagines Michelle’s breath against his skin, the craning back of her neck, her limbs wrapped around his shoulders and his lower waist. Peter whines and thickens in his rapidly working palm. His other rakes through his hair once more; he straightens his posture more to lean his shoulders again the wall, his sight seeing nothing but his horny fantasy.

Any time before, he would have felt embarrassed, exploding in a bright blush at even coming remotely close to imagine heated brown skin gliding across his. And Peter would have shaken his head, deny, deny, and deny it forever because Michelle is his _friend_ —albeit a stubborn, thick-headed, and cynical friend of his since late high school. She’s tall, pretty as a peach, and once he saved that peach emoji alongside her name in his cell phone because it reminded him of... She’s a close friend, a girl friend—and it is precisely this predicament which is the cause of his crossroads.

In the beginning, he felt guilty when the first bought of naughty dreams entered his subconscious, and he had fought them off and even actively _avoided her_ for a brief period because of them, but that was many _months_ ago. Over a year ago. And since then they have returned in spotty attendance. Until now. Until tonight.

Until _this_ where he would have them at least _once_ a week and wake in the middle of the night hot and bothered, or in the daylight with a strong case of morning wood.

And catching her…her…

“God, M’chelle,” slithers out between his teeth and reddening bottom lip.

And catching her _masturbating_ to the thought of him days ago—it’s still seeming unbelievable to apply that word to reality, to _him_ —it was the button to push him over the edge in both emotion and mentality.

On a dresser across the room his cell phone charges, stationed there as a tactic Michelle once suggested to get him out of bed on time. His alarm is set two hours before his morning college class.

Underneath the cover of the night in his dark dorm bedroom, it’s easy for him to imagine the brush of her eyelashes, the soft plush of her body and her weight on him—and he keens loudly—imagines the blissed-out heaviness of her stare that he can only conjure in his head, of what he can only _hope_ had been for him.

Peter pauses to scoot back further for his back to press flat against the wall and his pillows. Pausing, he gives a swirl with his thumb atop his blushing, swollen tip and shutters before reaching, clumsily and noisily, for something in the drawer of his small bedside table: it’s a small squeeze-bottle gifted to him in his freshman year as a sort of welcome joke from a senior student, but Peter decided to keep it at the very last moment. He squeezes a generous amount of the clear liquid onto his fingers and applies it, the act able to be done just as easy in the dark. He sucks in a sharp breath, moans between tight lips as his hand works and mumbles about how wet the woman he’s imagining is.

His hand speeds back up, gripping himself tighter as excess liquid drips to his perineal. Peter’s panting loud and unrefined.

He never sleeps in complete darkness, so there are always slits of street lights and passing cars shining across his dark bedroom. Likewise, the night is never completely quiet—whether it’s to his night-owl roommate who’s, at the latest of hours, is in the kitchen or watching television until four in the morning, or the other who snores like a hog; the fourth roommate is hardly home as much as Peter knows. (And Peter usually sleeps with ear plugs for his hearing sensitivity, but never during _this_ time because _reasons_ about not being suspected for his noise.)

So, in the late semi-darkness Peter’s underneath his large comforter, sitting in a slouch and eyes hooded with lust and staring, knees slightly bent and slackening further apart as his blushing head pokes a tent, at its full length. His other hand snakes underneath his thick pajama shirt, scratches lightly at his stomach, nails tease over his nipples and he groans, his hips unintentionally buck from a lighting jolt of sensation. So, he does it again. A choked “ _fuck_ ” is followed by the name of the woman-friend of his current fantasy—which is of her looking down at him with her thick lip seductively between her teeth as her hips move in an equally teasing manner—up and down, back and forth, in circles—that she clenches him dry and forces him into a hole worn into the mattress.

The most recent fantasy is from the dream he had just the week before.

A strangled noise arises from deep in his throat as his hands are working sharp and rushed, his head craning back to hit the wall behind him and his hips roll softly once, more forcefully the second time, and then forceful and desperate for the third time and onward. His bed is lightly squeaking. His mouth falls opens to pant for air. Head snapping back forward, he watches the blanket move at the work of his hands under, feels the shocks of euphoria from his right twisting and fingering the blown tip and his left continue on his length. He calls for Michelle, repeatedly. Begs. Imagines it’s her hands instead—wants to imagine it, can _oh so nearly_ see it—and his hips keep roughly bucking into his blanket. Sweat has gathered underneath his shirt and is moistening his collarbone; his eyebrows drawn together in concentration and determination. A hand drifts to roll his scrotum in his palm, squeezes it and he barely slaps his elbow over his mouth in time to conceal his yelp of pleasure. In the next several times it’s done, he shuts his eyes tightly and uses his teeth to poorly contain his noises.

Peter had been told that he’s a bit… _musical_ during certain private times, both by a past significant other and by an old roommate who's long since moved out when Peter had begun discovering the wonderful world of toys. Presently in his later years, he’s begun to consider to “fix” that little problem of his…

But right now, he’s breathing praises about the woman who’s effectively, unintentionally swiped his heart and pushed him over the edge; whispers about her beauty, about how she feels against him, around him, how he wishes she was here with him as a palm slips from his sack to his sensitive perineal. Now, his noises are an octaval higher, panting is quicker, his head falling backwards and knees completely open now.

After what feels like a few minutes later but is really much longer, Peter stops and wipes a hand on his shirt before rummaging back inside his little side drawer: what he pulls out is slick and dry and rubbery. It becomes moist and comfortable when lubricant is added to it. And when he slides into it, combined with the image in his mind’s eye, he _moans loudly._ Curses himself. Covers his mouth with the sleeve of one hand while the other grips so, so tightly around the simple transparent sleeve toy as he moves it as a torturous speed.

He isn’t hoping to go slow and enjoy himself, he’s chasing a finish—which comes after he’s flipped himself over and fucks his hips into the tightly gripped toy held to the bed. His other hand death-gripping his worn bed-sheets and perspiring forehead against his pillows, and eyes tightly shut, he’s whimpering pathetically into the cotton fabric, begging into the night for permission to be allowed to finish, that he's getting close, so ridiculously close. The bed is noisier. His skin is rosy from the blood rushing.

There’s an antique Captain America clock on his desk, an old thing May found at a garage sale and gifted to him years ago. It now reads the early hours of the morning.

A part of his considers he should be concerned about the volume of his groans and moaning. The other part is a selfish, one-track route solely concentrated on fulfilling his pleasure.

Peter’s release comes with stuttered thrusting of his hips and a name strained on his tongue.

When he finishes, his hair is out of place, there’s a thin layer of sweat gathered on him, and he shivers, pulling the used toy off. Also within his drawer is a small box of cheap, dollar store face tissues that he uses to clean himself off. Strokes himself a few times more, enjoying the aftershocks and sensitivity, as he waits for himself to soften completely before rolling out of bed and pulling his pants back up around his waist.

But now he’s left with a feeling that’s objectively _worse_ than the raging horniness, and he can only put the finger of _sadness_ and _longing_ on it.

Noiselessly, Peter pads to the shared bathroom after checking to see if the coast is clear, washes out the toy before returning to bed where he falls asleep minutes later and without the blankets. He’s to leave early in the morning. And at least this night Dream Michelle doesn’t visit him for a second time.

That morning he doesn't go back to sleep after his alarm. Peter is late to his college classes anyway.

* * *

_The Present_

Not a week has passed since Michelle J. Watson and Peter B. Parker both confessed feelings to each other—romantically and lust—and it was, _ahem,_ _settled_ later that very same evening: her abiding for him, her skin hot and humidified, bending to his whim, fingers, and mouth.

When she remembers it, she blushes, apprehensive and secretly joyous.

The rest of that very same evening had been spent at her residence since her two roommates were out for three days; the pair had ordered pizza, streamed a movie, and hadn't discussed just _how_ to define their relationship now and _where_ to go with it aside from Peter asking "So what are we now?" and Michelle unable to answer. Michelle had sat on her couch with her knees to her chest, feeling slightly more confound than she let on about this turn of events; Peter soon removes his arm from around her shoulders to wrap a blanket around himself. As a by-comment, he jokingly criticized her always having the A/C temperature low and cold. This time his jokes make her feel worse.

That night ended when sleep started to take over. And with it still heavily storming outside, they moved movie night to watching it on her bed through her laptop computer, sharing her bed's blankets but suddenly too modest and embarrassed to even hold hands—eventually they found comfort in knee-to-knee touch, to crossing ankles, then eventually fell asleep in each other's arms.

When Michelle thinks back about it, her chin lowers in timidness and she blows across her room-temperature tea because she needs _something_ to do and _something_ to distract herself.

Because, in the early afternoon of that following day shared, Peter had been very _adamant_ on eating her out again, asking with big brown eyes and sugar-coated, inflated compliments. He had said all the right things to get her hot and going and relaxed, and reminding how she bent to his will the day before hadn't helped her lighthearted initial refusal. And when she thinks back to then, he'd seemed to be trying to accomplish something beyond her orgasm—the grips on her thighs were extra firm, his tongue extra focused, his fingers extra determined and moans particularly more earnest. He watched her more this time—when she had been lying flat; then his eyebrows crook when she managed to sit up on elbows and looks like she was about to _cry_ —and hadn't been satisfied when her back arched far off the bed and she'd given a drawn-out but muffled shout that he _had_ to bring to a second orgasm.

Her head spins when thinking back on it—by embarrassment and astonishment rather than serotonin like back then.

Now it's past the three days later and her roommates have returned home. Michelle is currently at Jasmine's residence, a best friend she's made in college. She nurses a mug of chamomile tea, her third cup since Jasmine’s arrival over thirty minutes ago. Jasmine raises a brow at this, working on her own glass of spiked grape juice and accurately guesses that _something_ is currently bothering Michelle.

So, of course, Michelle admits what happened—the information coming out as a trickle of anonymous and ambiguous events and persons, about a long-time friend she thinks she's _finally_ in a long-awaited relationship with. ...And then specifics begin coming out after Jasmine scoots closer, smiling nosily, quietly insinuating to know _every_ detail.

Blushing all the way through, Michelle tries to keep out specific details and Peter's name.

Jasmine snickers when Michelle shares how quickly she'd grown sleepy at the end of their first day, and she laughs when Michelle tries to innocently admit how her hand roamed that following morning with " _maybe_ hoping for a reward, but, like, not _anything extravagantly grand_..."

"Yeah right, _nothing grand._ " Jasmine covers her mouth, chuckling.

"Don't act like you're any more experienced than I am," Michelle pouts. "Not like I'm...I'm _dickmatized_ or something."

"No, not dickmatized," Jasmine smiles around the rim of her drinking glass. Her long micro braids are pulled up in a large bun. "I'd say... It's, uh, lickmatized, I think it's called."

Michelle denies she's anything of the sort but Jasmine points out Michelle's retelling how she barely put up a fight against the "mysterious guy's" request for a round two and then how quickly she came—she quotes Michelle, including the other's words of surprise by the outcome.

"You're definitely lickmatized," Jasmine laughs again. "Hey, he sounds much better than what's-his-name?" Thinks for a while. "Oh! Jamal."

"Two-lick Jamal," Michelle nods, remembering the disappointment. _Two licks and then he tried to put it in,_ the story went; Michelle hadn't continued their interactions and ended all sexual relations after he refused to take consideration and improve.

Jasmine takes a long drink from her glass. "You mentioned your current boo is someone you've known for a while," she begins slowly, raising an eyebrow. "By any chance... This is crazy, but—does it happen to be that _Peter_ guy? The one you went to high school with?"

The daggers in Michelle's eyes are so apparent and her scowl so flustered that her rebuke "Fuck you!" is a plain giveaway.

Jasmine howls in laughter at her friend exposing herself.

* * *

_Some more time later_

It hasn't been half a month following _the incident_ with Michelle J. Watson and Peter is having an _excruciatingly difficult_ time in understanding the meaning of _confidential_ and _exclusive._

Two weeks after the aforementioned death-inducing event involving Peter's long-time friend, Michelle, of when she fell asleep during a movie at her apartment, leaving it and Peter watching her, playing with her hair, forgetting the partially eaten pizza ordered, and amazed at _his luck._

It hasn't been a week and Peter keeping this secret feels like _the most difficult_ thing he has ever done. He’s a bad liar and has a horrendous poker face, and Ned knew something was up three minutes after Peter arrived.

It first started with Ned: the two meet up one Saturday afternoon for their routine self-appointed "Best Friend Day," making up for the three weekends missed due to college, work, and to life in general. But with Peter, it's noticed as soon as he walks in—as soon as Ned opens his front door, he knows something monumental has happened. Maybe it's in the way his friend tries to casually stand with his hands in his pockets but is practically _buzzing_ with energy, or maybe it's in the unexpected and rare smug and _confident_ air exhibited.

"And hello to you too." Ned invites him inside with a questioning stare. "What's happened with you? You're practically, uh... _vibrating._ "

And then Ned thinks maybe the giveaway is in the way Peter practically _skips_ across the floor.

It all is supposed to be a secret but Peter messes up—he begins talking right then but catches himself after two syllables: "Nothing, nothing's up," Peter outright lies. He rubs his hands together and heads straight for Ned's kitchen, raiding the pantry for snacks. "Hey, where'd you put the soda?"

Ned answers that he kept them in his room because a frequent visitor of his roommate's has been eating more than his offered share. He returns from his bedroom with two family sized bags of Tostitos and cans of soda, instructing Peter to _think fast!_

"You and that dude would get along good, you know. Both of you eat like dumpster trucks."

"Haha," Peter mockingly frowns, cracking open his offered can.

Ned takes his time drinking from his can and watching his friend shove his head in the refrigerator, taking in the way Peter just barely masks some unknown excitement beneath a more retained placid exterior. "Seriously, dude, did something happen with you or what?"

"Oh, yeah. Everything's fine. Everything's great." He carefully balances three takeout containers of flavored chicken wings and a six-pack of soda under his chin. "Why'd you ask?"

"You were starting to say something earlier and then you stopped. That's all."

Peter denies—biting his lip and refusing a growing urge to share absolutely _everything_ about what has happened with Michelle to his closest friend. It’s a difficulty because Peter Parker is an open book, has always been; he’s a terrible liar, a chatterbox, he keeps his heart on his sleeve and proves near impossible to withhold his emotions and Ned doesn’t remember a time that Peter _doesn’t_ cave in and erupt all of his internalized thoughts in word-vomit. Peter’s current silence and denial has Ned’s suspicion flags raising higher with every lie and false-calm act.

But both young men continue into the evening with their plans anyway. The afternoon happens habitually: they pig out over videogames of Fallout and The Elder Scrolls, catch up with what was missed in each other's lives, of what social groups they have begun a part of and who they fell out with. Nearing two in the afternoon, the television is tuned in to the latest basketball game. Once during, Ned's phone rings with an incoming video call. Peter lowers the television volume with one hand because his other is deep in a bag of chips and is expecting his friend to answer but Ned lets it ring and eventually the call ends.

He'd caught a name on the screen: Marina (her username: @aquamarina).

Peter's questioning glance is paired with his cheeks full of food.

Ned rolls his eyes in answer.

Peter stares until Ned is looks at him again, swallows his food, then nods his chin to the now-black screen of his cellphone.

Ned shakes his head.

Finally Peter asks, "Who's Marina?"

Ned barely shakes his head again as he replies, "No one. Just...some girl from a class.”

“Is it the same Marina you were talking about, like, two weeks ago?”

Ned shrugs.

Peter doesn't _verbally_ give an inquisitive that he wants to know more but his air surely does.

"It's nothing." Ned grabs a handful from Peter's snack bag in his lap. "She's got a boyfriend anyway." He's eating his emotions, something Peter is very guilty of doing many times himself.

At this, Peter’s neck snaps to his friend on his right. "She's that girl who invited you out for lunch?"

Ned had hoped his friend hadn't remembered that—when Ned let his emotions and high expectations get the best of him and his judgement and he’d video-called Peter fretting about the entire situation, unsure of how to read Marina’s friendly signals, unsure about what the wear.

Ned originally suspected he’d allowed his fantasies to fog his sight and right-thinking, misinterpreting Marina’s friendly approaches as flirting—until she _started flirting_ with him. “After all this time…” He grabs another handful from Peter’s bag. “She’d been _flirting_ since the beginning of this semester and we had those plans for this Thursday…” When she let it slip a week ago that she had a boyfriend, Ned felt as if he’d been left in a freezer.

“She’d been _flirting?”_

Ned nods. Digs his hand into Peter's bag again. “Well I _thought_ she was.” He groans. “Turns out she wanted to invite me to come with her and her _boyfriend_ …”

Ned’s phone chirps again but it goes unattended to.

His friend lets out a sigh, his expression slightly hardening at the information.

On screen, the basketball teams grow seven points apart. Both young men have now lost the vigor and interest in the game, the face-call ruining the mood.

Then Ned's phone vibrates at a text message. It's ignored until it happens again, and twice more.

Peter picks up the phone before Ned can. The messages are all from Marina. Out of respect he doesn't read past the previews displayed on the lock screen—the ones shown are some kind of apology, something about wanting to speak to Ned about an incident that happened in a class they share.

Peter surrenders the phone at Ned's first request. Quietly, he watches Ned's thumb slide across the screen, unlock it, and scroll through the messages. He swipes right on them all. He turns off the screen and tosses it back to the couch cushion between them.

The game’s next quarter is filled with bated tension. At the commercial break following, Peter breaks the silence: “It isn’t just you. Luck, I mean. Everyone’s been having it real shitty lately.”

Ned looks at him in confusion so Peter exhales deeply, debates whether how much into detail he should go.

“You remember Robbie from two semesters ago? Yeah, he was on the news yesterday; got accused of being an accessory to some kind of heist.”

Ned gapes.

“He got off though. It was all false accusations. But—Jocelyn and Nate broke up. I overheard these girls in my class talking about this one professor knocking up a T.A. And I... _may_ have been told that Seth, Andre, and even Betty were going through the same thing as you. So, it isn't just you _at all._ ”

At this, Ned’s attention perks even more.

“Remember that girl, Chelsea, who we used to partner with who wanted to see us last summer? Turns out her cousin was kicked out and is now living with her.”

“Wait—you talk to Betty still?”

“Yeah. It was when her and MJ studied for the exams we all failed. Why?”

“No reason.” Ned turns back towards the television, the basketball game returning. “Haven’t heard about her since high school; just asking.”

Peter raises a brow but doesn’t get to question Ned’s sudden interest in their old friend because at that moment Ned glances over and asks, “How’s you and MJ?”

Peter takes his time to respond. “We’re—she’s fine,” he shrugs. “Uh, why?”

Ned shakes his head telling that it was no big deal. “I ran into MJ some time ago. Like, maybe two weeks ago.”

“Oh.”

“She was acting weird too.”

Peter scoffs.

“And stop saying you aren’t, man! You totally are!”

“I’m…” he starts automatically but his defense extinguishes immediately under Ned's unwavering and unmoved stare. “Am...not...”

Ned rolls his eyes.

On screen, the team Ned had bet on had been in the lead but as it continues, the score evens out.

“Ok, if my team wins, you stop your bullshit and tell me what is going on with you.”

Peter freezes, breathing and chewing ceasing for a second but too soon before Ned sees. Sounding offended, he complains, “Now that’s not fair!”

“We were betting already before. This is just an add-on to my side of the bet.”

“Come on, man...”

“Why do you have a problem? Got something to hide…?”

Now he’s less offended that he’s suspicious, squinting and frowning. He doesn’t agree but he also doesn’t back out.

Both men watch the rest of the basketball game in tensity. But just as it looks like Peter is about to lose the bet, Ned’s betted team far in the lead, he makes up a surprisingly seamless but false excuse and rushes out of Ned’s place.

He doesn’t call back to hear the outcome of the game for three days.

* * *

It’s two weeks after the confrontation about _the incident_ with Michelle and Peter finds himself called to have dinner with his aunt, seeing her for the first time in months.

They catch up at a small Latin restaurant. She's wearing the necklace and earrings gifted for her birthday last year. She’s going on about drama at the hospital she's volunteering at, about the CNA certificate she’s currently working towards and subtly criticizing her insecurities about her age gap to the majority of college student attendees, about returning to her hobbies which including yoga.

It’s equally been five days since Peter last spoke to Michelle.

And it’s fitting that May asks about her.

Immediately, Peter’s eyes widen. He freezes, takes much longer than the acceptable amount of time to answer so she squints and raises a suspecting brow.

“Fine. She’s fine,” he answers simply, speedily.

“Are you two...okay? Did you have another fallout? That last one was pretty bad.”

“No.” Peter shakes his head. “No; that one was...for dumb reasons. ...Because there was this guy...and she...” Seeing May’s nod and attentiveness inspires him to quickly change the topic. “What—what were we talking about? Before, again?”

May takes a moment to look her nephew over, slowly picking off an olive from her dinner. “We were catching up—about your friends. You still have friends, don't you?”

He feels scrutinized underneath her suspicious stare and accused by her question. “ _Yes_ I still have _friends,_ Aunt May!”

“That’s good,” and she tries to avoid eye contact with a man who’s been eyeing her for the last seven minutes, someone who Peter now recognizes as her landlord. “Good to know _your things_ haven’t gone to your head.”

“My _things?”_ Peter's food pauses en route to his mouth, him completely confused.

“Your...you know, your _business._ ”

It then dawns on him that she means his superhero side-gig. “Don’t _say_ it like that,” he can’t hold in the little chuckles. “It’s _extracurricular stuff_ not...whatever you’re trying to make it sound like.”

“I’m not trying to make it sound like anything!”

Peter gives a coy, disbelieving smirk.

"What? What am I making it sound like?"

"You know what you're, making it sound like."

"Enlighten me," she leans forward.

Peter briefly pauses before saying simply, "It sounds like I'm either doing drugs or taking a sh—have—have...indigestion medical problems."

May scolds him, partially offended for his language over a public dinner and partially realizing the unintended innuendo of her words.

Peter just snickers. "That's what you were making it sound like." With his eyes, he directs to May's landlord who is looking disgusted and is approached by a waiter; there was difficulty with him paying his bill, and this May takes joy in.

And she can’t continue holding a look of offense like she tries, it breaking terribly and joining in with his giggling. "Was not."

“Yes you were!”

“Was not! Don’t make me look bad in front of these people,” she hisses the last sentence and Peter just chuckles into his cup of water.

Having successfully diverged the conversation, he eagerly answers that his friends are still well: that Ned recently received an internship, that Betty recently started interning at a newspaper press, that the two friends Peter met in college are still managing well.

It’s been over a week since making the nosedive into the uncharted waters of a barely mapped out relationship with Michelle and Peter hasn't told a soul about it. He hasn't spoken with _her_ about their relationship now, it hanging in the air like a desired piece of meat to a starving animal who warily stalks around it, afraid of a trick or ruin. He's been unintentionally actively avoiding her from being busy with school, lost in a whirlwind of second-guessing and superhero-ing and inhibition.

In truth, Peter hasn't spoken with Michelle because he still feels guilt for the way things _started._ It wasn't how things were _supposed_ to go.

“Everyone’s doing fine,” Peter lies, speaking into his cup and watching May’s landlord pay for his meal and exit the restaurant.

Peter and May's meal continue comfortably and without interruption. She asks for her check by their waiter and it's delivered by an old friend, a returned employee who embraces her in a warm bear hug and belly-deep laughter. By this same man, Peter is taken through the routine questions about time passing, is told that he's remembered as a tiny boy who cried at every scratch and cut; he's asked about his college process, about his major and career goals—to which Peter hangs his head, depressed, and is scolded by both May and her friend about never lowering his chin. Peter's thumped on the shoulder and told something in Italian. And because Peter's stare is clueless, May receives a questioning and blaming _look_ to which she glares back.

"He took Spanish in school but no Italian at home?"

"Now you aren't going to start this again!" May directs to her large _Happy Birthday_ pin on her shirt. She doesn't repeat that she was never taught to speak the language but she could always understand it.

* * *

It's going on the end of the second week since Peter Parker has last seen Michelle and he had been gearing himself to picking a rooftop and retrieve his phone from his backpack to contact her. She'd called him and they spoke on the phone twice since that heated afternoon but they haven't ironing out most of their feelings and doubt.

Without waiting a beat, he swipes, unlocks, and clicks open a messaging app...but pauses when it's time to type a text.

A rare occasion, Peter doesn't know _what_ to say. The last they spoke in person...didn't involve much talking because of binge watching and making fun of a predictable drama-suspense show on Netflix that likely aired on The CW, when her roommates arrived, loud, drunk, and noisily dropping their suitcases in the hallway, slammed kitchen cabinets, and banging down the hall towards the bathroom.

In the other time that Peter last spent with Michelle in person, there wasn't talking for _other_ reasons.

Scrolling through past text messages, Peter conjures plausible answers she'd give in reaction to his sudden lack of contact—them all ranging from sarcastic to cynical to saddened.

It's unfortunate that he isn't aware or even _thinks_ that Michelle has been waging the same internal battle, because Peter then closes the app and looks towards the crowded street below. He sees people skip in front of others to get through a crosswalk, he sees a group of friends hanging outside a small restaurant, a woman caring for two unruly children, and a high school student wondering the streets every now and then. Peter pulls his mask halfway on and catches a particularly familiar woman entering a bookstore who has fantastically messy brown curls pulled up into a bun, a deep blue JanSport backpack slung over her shoulder, a tiny red and web-patterned cotton-plush figurine dangling from a safety pin fashioned on her bag.

Peter nearly jumps to his feet to pursue her. He pauses catching a couple enter into a clothing store, holding hands. He witnesses another riding in a convertible, the top rolled down, and the young woman lean over to kiss the driver on the cheek. He sees a pair of kids, early high school he assumes, holding hands and clearly blushing to one asking the other out, he assumes.

Peter sees things that seem to be slapping him in the face, as if they were signs, messages, omens. He feels happy about the outcome of progress but feels apprehensive about its _process;_ he fears that it may be short lived and thus he’s cautious and doesn’t want to step forward alone, without an agreement from Michelle.

He nearly jumps to make his way to the ground when his cellphone gives off a loud alert: it's a notification update for a news press who has updated twelve times in the last two days but couldn't seem to reply to his application to intern. This time, the update is a short video published by a young journalist: a woman standing outside a neighborhood building; she's reporting a story when, behind her and captured on screen, a door from an apartment flies across the street and unmasked men flee into the streets. The camera, no longer steady or facing the building, pick up the sounds of gunshots, howls of pain, and indistinguishable chatter. The camera turns to the reporter, she and the cameraman now hiding behind a vehicle. With her eyes wide and excited, she narrates that the questionable new "hero in red," who first arrived randomly and has been spotted locally for several days, is taking down one of the largest mob-linked drug gang in Queens, New York with his signature twin katanas and trusty utility belt. She wants to get an interview with him.

Peter rolls his eyes and exits the video.

In that same instance, he gets a feeling, a mental warning of alert and gets his fingers on his web shooters, slightly bounces on his toes, _jumps_ into the air from more of fright than he would ever admit from the sudden presence looming over his shoulder—because he _knew_ he's the only one on this rooftop.

Breathing near Peter's ear and flooding his nose with the smell of blood, dirtied polyester, and sweat, the voice gleefully greets: "The camera could never capture my dashing good looks and charming essence. And they _always_ manage to make my hips look big."

In his split-second instinctive action, Peter has his webs wrapped around the previously seen "hero in red."

"Again, for the second time: kinky."

Peter rolls his eyes, it hidden behind his mask. "I don't have time for this."

"Did I interrupt your superhero brooding moment again? My bad but I could smell the depression from a mile away." He struggles against the artificial webbing.

"I wasn't—"

"Sure you weren't, Spidey." He pauses. "Hey, do you mind?"

Peter wishes he could glare from behind his mask; as soon as he frees the other from his webbing, Peter's walking away to leave this rooftop.

"Has anyone told you that you're a bad liar?"

"Not today, Deadpool."

"You're more testy today than normal."

Peter couldn't tell if it was _completely_ sarcasm or not, but still he answers: "Very."

Then suddenly the older, taller man has his arm wrapped around Peter's shoulders, forcefully holding Peter's head to his own shoulder. "Come confide in Uncle Deadpool. Lean your heavy little bug head over here. We'll help get to the bottom of your inner turmoils and straighten out family drama under the presence of a live audience. But DNA test results come with a compensation fee to avoid waiting for commercial breaks—something you can't get on _Maury_."

Peter grimaces and tries to pull away. "You're the _last_ person I would tell about any of my problems."

Applying more strength than he's comfortable using on most people, Peter pries himself from the other and storms back to his discarded jacket, bookbag, and lunch.

By accident his finger clicks his phone's button and his screen turns on, showing a picture of Michelle she took and set as his lock screen on the morning of their three days of having her on-campus apartment to themselves. Peter already knows the comment is coming before it's spoken.

"She's pretty," Deadpool compliments, his cheery mood unfazed by Peter's attitude. "But I'mma be honest with you: she doesn't look like you'd be her type. All...spider-y and gloomy. You're like a...tiny bag of sulking. Small and cute but sucking the joy out of the air like a damn humidifier. A soul-sucking Eeyore."

Peter hurriedly clicks off his phone and continues stuffing his things into his bookbag.

"You know, a girl like her looks like the type that likes exploring cemeteries with her talking dog."

"She actually hates and is scared of cemeteries," comes out before Peter realizes, and he curses himself for it. "Not today, Pool," he repeats, hoping it would cover himself and that the other would take the hint, but Peter knows it's useless.

"Oh, so she's superstitious? What else does she like? Dreamcatchers? Blowing dandelions? Pug puppies, and lying that she drank absinthe in, like, the eighth grade?"

Without responding again, Peter shoots a web and leaves the building, ignoring Deadpool's calling. (And he doesn't tell that regardless indeed being somewhat superstitious Michelle has a collection of horror books she's read aloud to several friends, including him.)

When he finds another secluded area, Peter pulls out his phone, immediately goes to the messaging app but pauses. He then dials his aunt's number but then hesitates to call. He goes back to the messaging and types _"Hey MJ_ " with a thumb hovering above the button to send. Eventually he types out with it " _I was thinking if you would like to go on a date? Something official_ "

In text bubbles from conversations earlier that week, he'd bit the bullet and sent: " _So can I change your name in my phone?_ " To which she had been working on a response but never actually sent, the loading dots appearing then disappearing and Peter's question left unanswered.

To himself on the roof, he mutters, "I dunno what to do..."

And un-expecting Deadpool's voice again, Peter whirls at hearing, "Trouble in paradise?"

"That's—none of your business!"

"Fair. But if you wanna get the girl, fantasizing can only get you so far. And without stamina you'll last even less. Ugh, women hate that."

"What do you want, Pool!"

"We've known each other for—how long? Four months? And I'd say after our bro moments during that mission with White Tiger and Nick Fury we've reached fourth base. On a first name basis if I do say so."

Behind his mask, Peter rolls his eyes. "There's no fourth base," he sneers, searching the neighboring buildings for a plausible new destination to escape to.

Deadpool pauses for a moment. "You look like a nice kid...underneath the spandex and copycat suit design...so I'll hand you one piece of advice—"

"Don't need it."

"Yes you do. Especially after catching you butchering that po’ boy that one time. You have a lot of pent up anger there, Spidey. A lot of unresolved issues...that's why your ol' pal Pool is here for ya." He ignores Peter's surprised and suspicious look then. "Answer this: you're a virgin, aren't you?"

"Fuck off."

"You're legally not allowed to say that, I don't think."

Starting four months ago, Deadpool visited New York and began making a ruckus. For reasons Peter hadn't known at the time, he had been dragged into a mission directed by Nick Fury that was then sabotaged by Deadpool, cutting off all contact with Fury, and by the time it was finished Peter had spent three consecutive days with little sleep, met a team of new faces, was cornered and forced to spend an undesirably close amount of time with Deadpool, and he missed a midterm exam.

Since then, the man seemed to make a point to visit (and aggravate) the spider-based hero on every visit, all of them unannounced.

"Now I'm going to bestow on you some hard-earned wisdom: never not be supportive. Resolve everything while you have the chance and never lie. But run if she comes back with metal chains and a sounding rod then run like hell."

"Didn't ask."

"You didn't need to. That girl, the one on your phone, right? She's nice...kind of. Met her—briefly."

His mask's eyes widen; behind, Peter looks _horrified_.

"Thing is—because you seem like you're about to lose your head over a text message—is in order to keep a woman you got to be tender. Do you know how to love a woman?" he asks. As Peter begins to speak, to object his assumption and defend himself, Deadpool continues, ignoring the other. "You don't know how. You've, like, just finished high school haven't you."

"I'm over twenty-one!"

"So, you're twenty-two. Good, so I can continue." Which he does. "And you got to know how to love her, man. You'll be surprised, man. You've got to squeeze her, don't tease her, never leave her. You've got to hold her, rub her softly, gently. And don't bruise, but love is the main key. And for your sake, a lot less anxiety."

It doesn't click that Deadpool's words are from a song.

"Where did you get that advice from?" Peter sighs, not caring about the answer.

"The cinematic masterpiece _Shrek_." Deadpool nods, approving Peter's disbelief. "Fiancée loved that movie..."

He shoots an artificial web and prepares to jump off the ledge. "What? Did you talk her ears off too?"

"No. Died."

Peter pauses, goes quiet, feels _guilty_. "Listen—"

"Best few years of my life... Best love... And best fuck, too..."

Peter frowns.

"Then before you know it, all you'll have left is exposure poisoning from your pure lead engagement skee-ball coin." He looks to the other masked man. "So, like I was saying—"

"I'm set on love advice."

"Zip it, young man. You looked like you were three seconds away from singing your own breakup song. Now, what's Miss Sunshine's name."

Peter shrugs, giving in and still feeling slight guilt. "Mary Jane," he lies.

"Okay. Wonderful. Simple. Now what's got you down, Mister Melancholy?"

"You."

"Is it one-sided? Relationship affairs? Unresolved sexual tension? If it is, another word of wisdom: wrap it in Saran so shit doesn't hit the fan."

" _Goodbye_ Deadpool!"

" _Then_ you're free to experiment and try your fantasies like the crazy kids you are, like assisting each other before going for the big bang. If she's a gal who matches with you, like who likes toys, that's a bonus and the relationship can be uphill sailing from there."

Surprised, Peter whirls around. "That really works?!"

"What? Finding a connection—I think the kids are calling it _vibing_ nowadays? Yeah that works—"

"No, I mean...the other _thing_."

"Oh, you mean _toys?_ " And Deadpool breaks out in laughter.

* * *

He gives Deadpool's following words a day for consideration. In the meantime, Peter completes a scientific research paper and emails The Daily Bugle again. He tears a recipe from a magazine while in a supermarket checkout line and he accidentally skips dinner that night and then breakfast and he never actually tries the recipe. He gets an update from Ned via text, cheers him on for dropping Marina from his life and he hovers above Michelle's name, hesitates on sending her a text, eventually sends a meme instead of words.

Peter thinks about Deadpool's words—about how much he finds the other annoying, how much he _hates_ the other—and is called to visit his aunt's to help with Thanksgiving cooking. He's to visit his extended family this year and texts his friends so. He texts Michelle a question about her plans; she shares that she's taking a flight out of state for the holiday. Disappointed, Peter tries not to let it slip into his typed words but before he can hit _Send,_ her caller ID photo takes over his phone's screen in a call.

In the kitchen, May is making breadcrumb-topped cheesy corn casserole and buttered rolls from scratch and is calling for her nephew's help needed for completing the roasted chestnuts. He quickly breaths into the phone that he has to go.

Michelle hesitates, stutters, blurts out that she's embarrassed that she didn't answer his text earlier and that she _forgot_ to and that "...It's okay. I guess. If...if you wanna call...if you wanna use a nickname— _title_ , the title."

"The title?"

"If you want to change my name in your phone," she clarifies in a hurried huff. "Your text: I'm answering it."

Oh.

 _Oh_.

And she just _knows_ he's smiling at that, can practically _feel_ it in his tone—feels the memory of it pressed to her skin, etched into her thigh, and a phantom in her dreams. She can't groan about longing for his contact, no matter how much more it would have embarrassed her in person.

"Okayyy, MJ," he teases, exiting his bedroom to return to the kitchen. "Can I tell my aunt?"

"Tell me what?" Michelle hears over the line. "Who's that, Peter?" yells from the kitchen.

" _No,_ " Michelle freaks. "Not yet!" There's a pause as she thinks of an explanation. "I'm not...I'm just not ready to, like, you know, not..."

_She's not ready to go public yet._

The irony of it doesn't escape either of them but it isn't mentioned. It's known that Michelle isn't very much a _public person_ and highly prefers to live most of her life in as much privacy as possible, unless absolutely necessary. Even, in high school she purchased a VPN to go invisible on the internet. Flash Thompson and several others called her excessive and paranoid and continued on with heads in their iPhones. Ironically, a few weeks later there was a massive hack of many iPhones belonging to Midtown High students.

With his cellphone to his ear, Peter doesn't push, doesn't question and just nods. Remembering Michelle can't see his actions he responds, simply, "Okay."

There's instant relief felt.

He looks to his aunt, cutting with painstaking precision an X on each chestnut.

Michelle gives a closing and a goodbye. Peter stands in the walkway of the kitchen, silent and staring in deep thought, his phone slid into the pocket of his sweatpants. When May notices his return, he's finally snapped out of it with a question.

At first he shakes his head and answers that it had been "Nothing" that he'd been thinking about. But when he gets in the groove of helping his aunt with cutting, he gets comfortable enough to speak the question buzzing in his head for the past weeks: "Aunt May...have you ever...started something and it's too quick? Like, quicker than you think would be best?" He can feel his aunt look towards him, catching her knife slow down at the corner of his sight. "How do you know? How do you know if things are going too quickly?"

She thinks before she answers. "Is that about who you were just on the phone with?" She asks like she isn't expecting an answer, like she already knows.

And Peter knows she already knows, nodding his head to confirm.

"Because I also heard a little of what you were talking about—about the phone name—and I can kind of guess what it was about. I have my own special super-hearing too, you know." She isn't fazed by her nephew's look of surprise that she overheard; she doesn't look away from her knife and chestnuts. "But I'm not going to ask for details like who it was."

When her nephew lets out a sigh of relief that's a little _too_ loud does May glance over, and not for the first time she acknowledges that he's no longer a kid, no longer someone she can sweep up and take home and protect from the world and its atrocities and fight all his battles for him. She can't ground him and prevent him from making a big mistake or to pursue a criminal anymore. She can't scold him for being terrible at updating his location or make him eat his meals for his growing health—but she still always worries just the same. She's learned to step back and give him space. She's still having to remind herself to do so.

May concentrates back at her task at hand, glances to the wedding ring never removed from her finger.

She sighs. "That would be very complicated to answer," she gives, honest, but tries to answer him regardless.

* * *

Peter and Michelle don't spend the holidays together in any way, no matter how much it would have been liked. It was absolute torture, although she wouldn't dare admit that—at least, not sober. But as soon as they're in the midst of family, they are distracted enough to not be able to call or text until returning back home which, unfortunately, is the day after they return to college.

May takes Peter to visit her relatives and they have a feast consisting of spinach and prosciutto-stuffed turkey breast, pumpkin ravioli, and mushroom risotto. He meets cousins and great-aunts and great-uncles and flown-in relatives not seen for years. Peter sits on a couch and feels too awkward in a room swimming with people who have connections he doesn't, not as strongly, and oftentimes speaking languages he doesn't understand. He's approached by older cousins and uncles who playfully challenge his physical capabilities and manliness; Peter takes it as a grateful distraction. He helps his elderly relatives in the kitchen and gets his cheeks pinched and is called nicknames he hasn't heard in what feels like years. They laugh and drink and Peter eats everything on his plate even when he loses his appetite and when they reminisce over family they've lost and those gained. Peter is asked whether he's engaged yet, noting how many young American adults are getting wed early, to which he denies. An uncle speaks up to joke that Peter would probably marry science if he could—"A textbook would suffice."

Peter and May visit Ben's relatives, which include Peter's grandparents and cousins from his deceased parents. They eat kosher turkey, Brussel sprouts, and matzo ball soup, and they gossip and fight about petty things—sports, old forgotten memories, the proper process and secret ingredients for food dishes, whether to clear the table or let occupants do it themselves. This time, he's criticized about his features—his grandmother thinks he still has childish features and asks, not for the umpteenth time if he's got a girlfriend (he never tells, knowing word would spread). His cousin asks what happened to his reading glasses, them making Peter look just like his father. Another older cousin smushing Peter's cheeks like a child before making fun of his sweater vest. He's praised by his grandfather about sitting with the adults. Peter sticks his tongue out, teasing a young cousin after he's named _a favorite_. As they all prepare to eat, everyone states something they're thankful for; upon the topic of lost loved ones not making it to this year, Peter _feels_ glances towards him and other family. It isn't a discomfort but it is isn't exactly a dispiriting feeling either. Still, like any other large family, they play rounds of Apples to Apples and story tell and Peter eats everything on his plate.

Still, Peter doesn't change Michelle's name in his phone, doesn't change anything because he's unsure. He feels like he needs her blatant permission or her to do it herself because his mind has also gone blank on ideas. Because he was around family members close to his age, he couldn't add emojis beside her name—water droplets, a peach, a crown or hearts like he originally considered—because even though the adults may not translate the implications, his cousins definitely could. And for Michelle to be the next dinner topic is _not_ something he would have be an option.

So, eventually and like most things, he forgets to change her contact name in his phone until she calls him on a Friday night when he's in the midst of a reading assignment and asks what he's doing. And then she asks for a selfie. But in lounge clothing and he hasn't taken a comb to his hair for two days, he sends a picture that was already stored in his gallery, one Ned crudely took, one with a pair of blue-tinted glasses.

Michelle's reply is immediate: _One not with ugly af shades on_

He stifles a laugh then she sends two more texts: " _We talked about this_ " and " _I know you have more stored in your phone_ "

" _I don't look handsome in those?_ " he jokes with a smirking emoji.

" _Not by a long shot_ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think of this so far because kudos do not tell anything. If you want to share the love for this reblog it on Tumblr please. Feedback is greatly encouraged and it is motivation that will help get chapters out


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _To anyone still following me for Spideychelle: Hi! I don't know if I am fully back but here is another chapter I spontaneously decided to work on today and finished, so I'm dropping it. I struggled the most with the beginning of this so a great thanks goes to spiderman-homecomeme and you-guys--are-losers on Tumblr! ❤_
> 
> _There are a few things I would like to say first:_
> 
> _1\. I hope everyone is hanging on during these crazy times and you have my dearest condolences for any misfortune that befell you. My experience has no objection._
> 
> _2\. I made a post on my blog the other about my evolved feelings about writing smut (aka erotica) which is one half of my conflicting feelings with finishing this story_
> 
> _3\. The second part is because I absolutely hate leaving stories unfinished, particularly if I knew how I wanted them to go or end_
> 
> _4\. The final part is due to another story I read some time ago, which I will go more into detail in the final chapter because it will be a spoiler_
> 
> _5\. Despite these things, I hope those of you who read this enjoy this chapter, all fifteen pages of it!_
> 
> xoxox

For the three weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve, Peter and Michelle interact very little outside of occasional text messaging. This is entirely due to falling victim of studying for upcoming final exams, for pages of novels needing to be read for class credit, final club meetings and organization meet-ups, and Peter almost having a fight with his dorm mate because of the piles of dishes in the sink and finding said roommate’s Juules stuffed besides the fucking silverware and _then_ he somehow, for some reason, lets loose his ex-girlfriend's ferret and it makes a home beneath Peter's bed.

Michelle and Peter go nearly a month without seeing each other following their intimate evening spent together in her bedroom. It gave them whiplash, of sorts.

Many mornings throughout Thanksgiving break, Peter opens his texting app to type out a message, a question, a greeting, an "I saw this and it reminded me of you." Oftentimes he types the message out entirely. Rarely does he actually send it to her.

The first one he _does_ send is a cartoon of a turkey sitting around dozen empty dinner plates, it over-stuffed from food. The accompanying text lamely captions: **_Happy Thanksgiving_**

He isn't expecting a reply, especially not one as fast as she sends: _You too. How was the family?_

There's mental whiplash about how completely and quickly they return to casual. It doesn’t fully sit right with Peter.

* * *

Michelle's parents are a generous combination of overworking and overly encouraging. Oftentimes, they share overtime hours at the hospital, giving the impression that Michelle lived alone in high school. She used to shrug it off, quell her feelings in favor of the knowledge that her parents’ careers are more important, especially since it puts a roof over her head and food on her table. She can’t say that she isn’t _unloved_ , but there was a reason lots of her time and void in her chest was filled with books. their habits and hours continuing to college, she can’t stop the small pebble of disappointment in her stomach during the holidays, or the back-and-forth between reasoning in the back of her mind.

She’s older now but not much has changed. When she comes home for Christmas break, her parents were pre-scheduled for night shifts, so they only greet Michelle after she’s arrived and unpacked and is nodding off on the living room couch, switching between late night talk shows on television.

The rest of her family is either passive or condemns this and how Michelle has grown to be far less outgoing and energetic as the rest of her cousins. But every time Michelle visits for the holidays, she’s made sure to be welcomed and included despite the expected criticism that comes with college: How are her grades? What’s it like at her university? Is the workload difficult or easy since she’s spent all of high school with her head in a book? Has she got a job or internship yet? _When_ is she going to get one? Has she started working out, because the pounds are starting to catch up with her from her waist to her thighs. Through it all, Michelle gives a forced, strained smile because she knows better than to speak her mind to the older, stubborn generation.

* * *

A week into Michelle’s visit, an aunt makes sure to sit her down and hear about the updates on Michelle's life. The action had been nice and a comfort when Michelle was younger and had more to say and even more she wished to share, finally having someone to listen to her and to talk to. But now that she's much older...Michelle values seclusion and privacy.

A thumb runs around the edge of her cellphone. She’d just typed out a message to Peter but haven’t yet pressed _Send_ , nervous about its wording and timing.

And as this same aunt now sits her down a week before Christmas and offers Michelle a large cup of still-steaming cinnamon cardamom tea with lavender cookies in a napkin, Michelle _knows_ it’s a coax. Michelle knows she became secretive since graduating high school and she knows that her aunt misses their openness. But even as she accepts the tea and searches her brain for an appropriate response as she feels her aunt preparing to speak, Michelle can only come up with the truth.

And the truth is the _worst_ thing in this situation, at this moment.

"So, what’s been up with you, Mitchy?"

Michelle inhales, exhales. Glares at a nearby younger family who overhears the super-secret and super exclusive nickname for the first time.

"Nothing besides the usual," Michelle answers.

"You're in college for, what, two years now? What about the student life? Any partying? Clubs?"

"That's for more... _preppy_ , partying people. It’s not my thing. It’s...too much." She takes a cookie from the napkin between them.

"Nothing?"

Michelle nods. "Nothing."

“What stories? Have a crush? Or even a significant other?”

The memory of waking up next to Peter flashes in her mind like a camera. Her grip tightens around the cup, and she can still remember his shirt underhand, the feel of his heartbeat against her ear, the strength of his grip around her thighs, the determined, carefulness of his lips—

Michelle catches herself from choking.

“No,” she answers her aunt. “Nothing to share.” This is the first time she keeps everything a complete secret.

Her phone feels heavy in her jeans pocket with the unsent text message. It vibrates, once, at a notification, and Michelle very nearly jumps, receiving a rush at hoping it could be Peter.

"Then gimme back my tea. I know you’re lying."

* * *

_Even more time later_

It takes Michelle two more weeks to text Peter about their relationship, it only accomplished through relentless teasing by her friend, Jasmine, after reminding Michelle _about_ the incident and Michelle's surprising amount of _self-control_ that's _still_ strengthening after attempting to deny and self-psych herself out because Michelle convinced herself that she most definitely _didn't_ need to contact her old high school crush literal _days_ after _the reconciliation of that incident_. And she could definitely, absolutely last a simple _week_ alone...even though her loins feel to disagree.

Besides, it hasn't even been _officially established_ what they are now and Michelle is afraid to let her feelings get too high, not now and not after remembering her track record involving relationships. She’s called cynical for a reason and she’d rather not get ahead of herself at the cost of losing a friend over another twenty-day daydream temporarily come true.

 _Another_ friend—that story is something different entirely which Michelle would rather not get involved in again.

And, just as she’s winding down for her last night having her college residence by herself (having left her family early to avoid traveling complications), Michelle’s cellphone chirps at an incoming text. From Peter.

**_We need to talk_ **

The single line does not include a follow-up. It’s haunting, ominous. Michelle is confused, so she phones him immediately. She only gets his voicemail. She tries two times more and gets the same. Then, turning on the local news, she catches a live coverage of a battle between a criminal gang called The Enforcers and Daredevil.

As she’s falling asleep that night, he replies: **_You up?_**

For the sake of retaining her sleep schedule, she tells herself to reply in the morning. But her mind buzzes with all the possible negatives which she previously thought she’d successfully convinced herself were _false_ and she can’t relax to sleep. But then she receives a corny but very in-character meme picture in a text message, one that’s over-filled with emoji hearts and which she would normally annoyingly ignore or roll her eyes at. This time, unlike with the changed contact ID nickname, she reveals herself by smiling at her phone but still rolls her eyes. She sends a single blue-colored heart emoji in response. Michelle tilts her head and rolls her eyes again when he sends an enamored heart-eyed emoji face.

* * *

_A few days later_

Michelle thinks she’s successfully convinced herself of all the possible negatives, but then she receives a corny but very in-character meme picture in a text message, one that’s over-filled with emoji hearts and which she would normally annoyingly ignore or roll her eyes at. This time she still does roll her eyes...but also reveals herself by smiling at her phone. She sends a single blue colored heart emoji in response. She tilts her head and rolls her eyes again when he sends an enamored heart-eyed emoji face.

And all that had been weeks ago.

Now going on three weeks after the life-altering _incident_ , Michelle’s greeting text to Peter three weeks following Christmas break is: _What are you up to?_

She receives a reply some twenty-three minutes later after she's found a comfortable position in her bed: **_Nm. Just swinging._**

 _Nothing much? Just swinging?_ she reads, skeptical. Michelle’s quick-searching his pseudonym in recent local news websites, hoping nothing dire comes up. _You didn’t almost fall while answering this did you?_ she sends.

She pulls her thin sheets up to her shoulders, warm and relaxed underneath. Sighs in relief from finding nothing life-threatening in the results. Then, she closes the app and reads his replying text.

Peter sends a laughing emoji wearing a sweat drop.

_Jesus fucking Christ Peter! I don’t need you to die on me_

**_Because you would miss me too much? Aw_ **

_Don’t get sassy_

**_So you wouldn’t miss me? :(_ **

_Not at all_

He sends a deeply frowning emoji.

She rolls her eyes and thumbs a reply: _Mayyyybe. A little..._

He sends a smiling face.

_Will you be finished sometime soon? I want to see you_

**_How soon?_ **

_Like now soon_

**_I just started patrolling but I can cut it short. Are you okay? Do you need something?_ **

_Yeah_

On Peter's end, he’s returning to his dorm after his unannounced short break from “hero-ing.” He’s been ignoring the biting opinions and criticism from gossip outlets, in the comments on news articles, of that blasphemous reporter, J. Jonah Jameson.

Earlier today, he’d stopped a premature robbery today, as well as calling out and thus stopping a man right before overpowering a young woman for her opened purse. And instead of a “Thank you,” he receives a rude frown and complaints about _why did Spider-Man suddenly become a no-show for two months!?_ So, Michelle's text messages were a grateful distraction.

Peter still hasn't changed her nickname in his phone. Mostly, he'd forgotten to. Also, he's horrendously terribly at creating anything _clever_ and _catchy_ when placed on the spot and couldn't come up with anything besides "MJ" or "Chelle," and thus left her name plain and unassuming and emoji-less.

But this afternoon as Michelle disrupts their flow of continuous text messages by suddenly not responding immediately, Peter’s left to stare at his phone's screen while seated on a building's ledge, drumming his fingers and attempting to distract his impatience by counting the number of people taking selfies on the ground far below.

Going on five minutes of waiting, he sends a follow-up text, **MJ,** and is typing a question asking if she wants to meet at his residence or hers and is refraining from allowing his hyped-up emotions and short-sightedness to govern his actions.

 _I do,_ she replies finally. Then as if as a second-thought, she sends out: I _need you to meet me at my place. Bedroom window._

This doesn’t raise any thoughts or suspicions, having climbed in or tumbled through her window for desperate measures times before—such as needing an assistant medic, or homework help, or for whatever excuses he could come up with which would grant him more one-on-one time with the girl he’s been crushing on since high school sophomore year.

**_Yes m’lady_ **

_Just hurry up dokr. Or I’ll kill you_

**_*Dork_ **

**_To die by you would be the way to go_ **

_Then hurry up and get your goofy ass over here_

**_Right away m’lady_ **

Peter thought he could prevent himself from jumping off into things headfirst. Ultimately, he fails dramatically.

More curious about why she hadn’t taken the opportunity to shoot a comeback about him teasing her typo, Peter climbs up her side of her apartment building with the usual regard and caution of trying to not be seen wearing his superhero suit in the blinding setting sun. With even worst stealth, he approaches her window prepared to dive inside as soon as she opens it, if it isn’t already upon inspection.

But as he’s clambering across her level’s fire escape, he freezes, overhearing a lurid groan. He'd heard it earlier as he swung closer to her building then scouring up the brick wall but it passed over his head and hadn’t thought anything of it until it happens now, again, and closer.

Until it happens once more while standing on her fire escape.

And then again, nearer, as he sneaks to her window. Now Peter’s eyebrows are drawn together and his heart is in his throat for a whole _different_ reason. He’s heard that sound before—similar and slightly higher-pitched, but it rings a bell in his head that makes his hair stand on end and his mouth dry. He needs to apply more strength to separate his feet from the metal fire escape.

Slowly, cautiously, he cups a hand on her window glass and witnesses a sight that makes him reflexively reel back against the building wall. His back against brick, Peter's eyes are wide and he’s panting, panicking, prepping himself by swallowing his nerves, failing to control his pulse, and leans to peer into Michelle’s bedroom again.

The sight, as enticing as it is exhilarating, is Michelle in bed...and if that was the end of things, it wouldn’t explain the unconscious order sent from quiet corner of his brain for his fingers to curl under the small amount of space between her window and sill. It wouldn’t explain the mechanically pulls the window _up_. Because, as far as Peter can register, the sight of Michelle’s head tossed across her pillow, legs spread wide apart, and it painfully, glaringly obvious that she’s _touching herself_ beneath her thin sheets that are pulled up to her shoulders. She lets out another moan, her back arching a little, and Peter swallows, mouth opening. His stare is gorilla-glued on the rhythmic motions of her hand between her legs. He wets his lips, is lifting her window enough to slide into her bedroom without registry of how hard he’s growing until how quickly his suit gets uncomfortable.

Michelle’s back lifts from her mattress once more. She bites her lip as her head turns away from the window, stifling a moan and her hand works faster, rubbing in circles, her actions lifting the sheet up and down. There's a sound of something buzzing within her room that goes unnoticed.

Peter grapples at his suit, forgetting he isn’t wearing pants and that he couldn’t loosen a belt as he develops tunnel vision when Michelle says his name in a drawn-out moan.

Peter bites his own lip and whispers a curse.

He could watch her all day if able and does little to stop her; he assumes she knows this too because when her eyes flutter open, she isn’t the least bit caught off guard to see him.

“Heard you come in.” Her motions slow to a stop.

“Yeah.” He swallows again. “I...” Fumbles at formulating a sentence, his brain short-circuiting and distracted.

She’s slightly out of breath and her hair isn’t neat but she still holds a steadiness to her voice as she courageously inquiries, “Take off your suit.”

“My—my what? My suit?” He finally drags his gaze up to her face.

“Uh huh,” she nods, sitting up and taking her time to crawl forward by her hands and knees towards him. “Take it off and hurry up and get over here and kiss me.”

His intense, spaced-out stare causes her breath to catch and develop a desire to get completely drunk off of the lust inebriation gradually filling her room.

Peter doesn’t even _blink_ before he’s working his one-piece super-suit off his shoulders. But before it’s fully down his waist, Michelle grabs the garment to pull him close to stand at her bed’s edge.

“C’mon ‘ere,” she says, voice husky and her eyes heavy.

Peter barely has time to completely remove his mask before she adds, “You haven’t kissed me yet.”

And her hands are on his cheeks and she’s bringing his mouth down to hers. He chuckles at her impatience, fully removing his mask with a free hand.

With growing eagerness, he climbs onto her bed, lowering between her legs, and moans against her lips when her fingers find his hair and gives a gent pull, nails rakes across his scalp.

His suit isn’t even down his legs when she sighs, "Told you...missed you."

She feels him smiling against her throat, then his kisses travel south. She takes his low hums against her skin as agreement.

Peter quickly finds out that she’s wearing _very little_ beneath her blanket, it igniting flashbacks to the night that started this, as his ungloved hand meets the peculiar pair of lace panties she’s wearing. He moans again when he runs his fingers against its bridge, finding it completely soaked.

“How long were you doing this?"

She gives a dazed "Huh?” too zoned in on her own pleasure and the thrill of finally feeling him against her again.

“You’re so wet, Em,” he groans, voice lowering from lust.

Her hands roam around his shoulders, feels the muscles in his arms bracketing her. Her fingernails lightly drag down his bare back pull a moan from deep within his chest. "Em...” he stops her with a coax of his nose nudging hers, waiting for her to answer him.

“I wasn’t—” She breaks off to swallow thickly. Nearly ignores his question when his back bends, rolling forward, and makes it suddenly exceedingly difficult for her to breathe as Peter’s fingers begins to rub her over her the bridge of her underwear. “I’d been...t-touching myself for m-maybe, uh, two—three hours now.” She hums in pleasure.

Holding himself above her, Peter’s face is so close she can see the freckles on the bridge of his nose, his eyelashes, the color seeping into his cheeks. She can see the change in his eyes as she speaks—a light-switch of a change that if she would have blinked, she would have certainly missed it and so faint that if she hadn’t been as observant, she wouldn’t have noticed.

Instead of responding, Peter swiftly brings fingers to his mouth to wet them, and then they're moving aside the bridge of her underwear to rub against her, bare, and eliciting a small gasp from her.

“Is this lace?" he teases, fingertips beginning to dip inside her soaped entrance.

She keens, eyes fluttering closed.

“I thought—wanted to be a little spontan— _something different!_ " Her words end in a gasp. _"Oh, fuck!"_

“I’ve barely touched you, Em." Peter bites his lip, holding in a smirk. Two fingers ease inside her now and he hisses, becomes transfixed at how easily, quickly, and perfectly she tightens around him.

Her needy moans and nails digging into his shoulder blades nearly make him give in to his desires and screaming urges.

He _nearly_ does.

“Your window’s still open," he mutters, fingers curling and slowly pumping inside he, remembering her orders from the time before.

She doesn’t answer immediately, panting and unfocused on anything that isn't skin to skin. Peter allows it to pass, focused on her tight flower. Only when he slows to a near stop does he repeat himself and earns an answer.

“It got you here didn’t it, smart guy?" she breathes, still able to give out smart-ass comebacks about the opened window.

Peter removes his fingers, gradually leans away from her to sit back on his knees. "At least let me take this...this suit all the way off, will ya?" He grins against her eager lips, her hands around his neck loosening, initially refusing to let him go.

Frowning, Michelle leans back on her elbows to watch with a flitting chest as he stands beside her bed and pulls his legs from inside the Spider-Man suit.

“I like this view a lot better."

“Do you now?" he jokes, hands at the waistband of his boxers.

“Mmhm." Her gaze languidly travels to the semi’s tent that’s forming between his legs. Tongue slips out to her lips, distracted.

But the way he then seemingly uncomfortably shuffles and the change in his air and demeanor clears her mind a little, pulls her gaze up to watch his face and ask, "You okay, Peter?"

He answers that he is, that it’s nothing, a _no big deal_ , but he always says that so Michelle isn’t convinced. He's suddenly different, nervous—and she feels guilty.

“You sure?” she asks, growing concerned. “Was this... This was going too fast, wasn’t it? ...Too much, too sudden." To herself she mutters, "I'm impossible at this." It was at a volume no person would have heard but she often forgets about Peter's enhanced hearing.

Michelle pulls her sheet up to her chin, drawing her knees to her chest.

She wanted to get more out of her comfort zone, to loosen up and try being spontaneous, and she tells this in another murmur. Obviously now she thinks she fucked up.

“No! No, not at all!" Peter hurries back onto her bed beside her. "You're good! More than good. You're... _perfect!_ " He chuckles, searching for the right word, and blurting the one he feels fits the most. "I just… Um…”

“It’s ok," she dismisses, standing from her bed and going to close her window herself. He notices she makes a point to not lock it like normally. "I came on too fast." Nods, sucking her bottom lip, shielding some of her embarrassment.

Peter sits on the edge of her bed, welcoming her back with opened arms which she's hesitant to approach. "No, it wasn’t you—at all! It was...um..."

Michelle stands between his legs but is gazing out the window and not at him, and he can tell that he’s losing her.

“Em?"

Hesitates. “Yeah?" She still doesn’t turn. Pulls at the hem of her vastly oversized t-shirt that reaches to her thighs.

“Em. Look at me?" She doesn’t so he makes her, turning her chin with a finger until she's facing him. She's wearing the pout that he’s finding his gaze drifting to, increasingly, lately. "It wasn’t you. I was just...thinking...of things."

“Things... Like what?"

And her question is so innocent, so honest and concerned that it nearly makes Peter’s heart _ache—_ not because of the cause, no, but because he already knows that he’s going to lie, that he _has_ to for himself and her. And so he does, convincingly: "About how much I fucking _missed_ you too." He forces a smile that ends up being one part genuine and one parts a shield.

Michelle almost remembers when he acted strange on the second day he’d stayed over, back when all this began—when he’d _almost_ seemed out of character, as if he was searching for something within her orgasms.

Again, she _almost_ does.

Luckily for him, this is one rare moment that his poker face is _good_ , and Michelle _believes_ him.

She doesn't smile but she does run her fingers through his hair, calmer this time. "How was Thanksgiving? I didn't hear from you." She changes the subject and the underlining meaning of her add-on makes him flinch. "You look like you're losing some of that muscle," she teases, poking an arm.

"Ha ha. You'd hate that wouldn't you?"

"A little, yeah.” She acts as if she’s musing the thought over. "But I'm more concentrated about stamina." Proudly, she adds, "I've been working on mine."

"Have you?" Peter gingerly lifts her large shirt by his gliding fingers, watching the expanse of her legs slowly reveal. And then her underwear. And finally, her stomach where he begins leaving soft butterfly kisses. He hears her sharply inhale upon contact.

"Mmhm. I... uh, you know how my family is. I had to get alone time so I went to the gym. And, honestly, I'm a little jealous of you."

"What have you got to be jealous about?" His nose presses against her skin, him giving tender open-mouthed kisses to her panty line. He inhales deeply and it doesn't go unnoticed by Michelle.

"Jealous was," and she shakily sighs as he nibbles at her panty line, her nails scratching along his scalp now, "the wrong word."

"Come on Decathlon captain," he teases, mouth venturing to her bra's underwire, his head now underneath her shirt.

"Shut up," she giggles. "That night—day—whatever. You said 'next time,' so I was just...prepping for when 'next time' happens."

Peter stops. Removes his head from beneath her shirt to look up at her—and it's an unexpected stare that makes her freezes, that makes _her_ feel uncertain, and she can only stand still as a rock as he gets to his feet to press his lips to hers.

"You're amazing," is whispered.

"But I didn't do—”

"You just are...the most _amazing_ girlfriend."

It takes a moment for it to _click_ in Michelle's head what was just said. When it does, she's pulling away with a hand to his shoulder, stopping his kissing.

"Wait. Wait—girlfriend?"

Peter pants. Swallows. "It’s okay if I call you that, right?"

And the answer she gives is complete shock mixed with delight. "Yes—yes! Finally." She takes his cheeks in her hands and brings him close again. They share another kiss before she pulls away. "We haven't talked about this. Should we talk about it?" She’s growing out of breath and entirely distracted.

He isn't any better, his smile so wide it starts hurting his cheeks. "Sure. Do you wanna be my girlfriend, MJ?"

"Duh." She gently coaxes him to scoot back on her bed’s edge then climbs onto his lap.

His chuckle is revitalizing.

In the midst of their continued kissing, it quickly turning hot and heavy, Michelle gets out, "Have you called me that to anyone else?"

Peter denies he has but he's also too distracted with his mission to cover every inch of her body. And she doesn't mind it quite at all.

Hands are impatient. The room grows hot and humid. The two young adults are greedy, eager, and enamored, at last unashamed to speak. In time they become so distracted that they jump from hearing the front door slam closed, fearing one of Michelle's flat-mates have returned. She looks expectedly at Peter; he listens, informs that a flat-mate was leaving, not arriving.

"I didn't even know anyone was home." Her mind becomes distracted at his fingers messaging into her side; she noses his neck in response.

Pausing again to listen, Peter shares that he doesn't think anyone else is in the apartment. Head spin as she takes his skin lightly beneath her teeth, testing. His fingers press harder into her side and at this. Michelle wraps her legs fully around him and her hips roll, just once, experimentally, into his. This is enough to make him flip them over to lay her shoulders on her pillows.

As the heavy mood returns and he entwines fingers with hers and applies his mouth and teeth on various parts of her upper torso, Peter asks what she’d been doing before he arrived. She reveals that she sees right through his attempts, gives in anyway, and bashfully but with much hesitance that needs repeated reassurance, she eventually pulls out a small, leopard-printed vibrator hidden under the sheet beside her pillow.

She doesn’t know what to expect...but of Peter’s eyes widening and whispering a shocked “Oh!” was not on that list.

Michelle hadn’t formulated a list, actually.

And Peter admitting that the toy _excites_ him is also not on that hypothetical list, but Michelle can always accept add-ins.

Then he's kissing up her neck while lifting her knees, scooting closer as he asks about the vibrator—how long has she owned it? Could she use it again? Can he use it on her?—to which Michelle goes silent over, shocked and _aroused_ too. Amused at her sudden bashfulness, he shares that he has toys of his own and asks what else she has stashed away, if they can play with some today.

Michelle pulls away in disbelief. "Are you serious right now?" She honestly can’t tell.

Peter just nods, too focused on his mouth making contact with every inch if her skin.

"I just didn't think..."

"Didn't think what?"

She thinks he's maybe _too intent_ on leaving as many hickies as he can. Michelle swallows feeling him kiss her panty line now and his fingers hook around the elastic band of her underwear. "That...you know... _you'd_ be into that."

"Why not?" He hums against her heated beige-brown skin.

"You're not exactly the most adventurous person in world, Peter."

At this he stops, her panties not even down her hips yet. And he looks _offended_ and _shocked_ at her words.

"I have _so_ been adventurous!" he defends.

"When was the last time you were, then?" An eyebrow rises.

"It was....” He thinks. “Remember that time when..." He struggles. Remembers an incident like a lightbulb flashing on. "That one time when I got involved with that water gun tag-game in Central Park?"

"Okay, that's one time. What’s another?"

"And that time I went to space?"

"That was for missions. It doesn't count."

"It so does count! Space is terrible!"

Michelle can't hold on to her composure and breaks out in laughter.

Peter pouts.

"Name another one."

"No," he refuses, still offended.

She shrugs. "Okay. Could I just get one of your recording robot things _to share the last seventy-two hours with us?_ " She sits up and calls out purposely loudly, hoping that one he’s always carrying around will pick up her request.

Peter shushes her.

"Is there something you're trying to _hide?_ Huh? So modest, Peter."

His frown deepens. "I'm not modest. ...Not _that_ modest."

Michelle lightly kisses him on the cheek. "It's a good thing. It adds to your charm." She cups his jaw. Leans over to open her bedside drawer but stops when he speaks next:

"Like the way I ate you out and you said you nearly cried?"

Michelle is scandalized. Doesn't know what to say or how to move. Everything that comes to mind about what to say in retaliation makes her feel exposed and shy. Her arm just falls, freezing in her bed, and her mouth opening and closing like a gaping fish.

"Would you like _Modest Peter_ to reenact that again?"

Her breath catches as he pulls her close by her thighs, forcing her to sit back onto her elbows. He's grinning, smugly, devilishly, and Michelle is _thrown_.

"Or, should I eat you out from behind this time? There are _so many positions_..."

Michelle's eyes go wide as a hand glides to her hair, tangles in her waves, and gently tugs as he bites her earlobe. Her hips buck, entirely on reactionary reflex and from feeling the friction of the thin layers of clothing separating them. Her head begins to spin.

"Or, can we use that little toy of yours?" Pulling away, he remembers her remark about her other toys. "You said you had other ones, right? Where are they? What were you going to use?" Glances at her partially opened bedside drawer, he reaches before asking. "Are they in here?"

Michelle is too shocked and doesn't have it in her to call for him to stop from reaching for the handle. He's already peering inside before she fully sits back up.

She swallows, gathering her bearings. "I... I-I was going to use this one..."

She’s a bit dazed and feels like she's treading new ground, so she's careful to read and factor in all of his reactions: that Peter confessed he enjoys toys and he doesn't look taken aback or disgusted or appalled.

Michelle glances down and sees the tent in his boxers rising. Her confidence flares. She pulls out the toy, lays it on her bed, flips them over so she's on top, occasionally grinding her hips and kissing him until he's distracted and dizzy.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Comments/opinions are greatly appreciated. A moodboard for this series will be arriving shortly on my blog :)_
> 
> _Edit: The one thing I wanted to highlight, as I like to include in all smut written, and particularly for this chapter is healthy relationships and healthy sex. Doubt is a sign to stop. Uncertainty is a sign to stop. Consent from both parties is the only green light._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _hi! hi. so it's been, what, many months since I last updated this. but, hey, 2020 was a hectic year. other than that, my excuse to not getting anything done that wasn't a short fic was due to being pummeled with an enormous writer's block to where I went on hiatus from writing for a long time along with spotty online attendance. it sucked all around._
> 
> _this update is due to popular voting of having an early update. you will also notice that the expected chapters increased from 3 to 4. this is because, while writing this one, I once again miscalculated, aspired to be a perfectionist, and wrote too goddamn much. so now, the expected "ending sexual scene" will be split into two chapters which will also give the final plot event room to be fleshed out a bit more with words. if this chapter wasn't split, then it could have been a 16k word chapter and I know those are NOT fun._
> 
> _that's all for now._

With newfound confidence, she reveals what her true plans had been: and pulls out a dildo, silicone and purple and semi-realistic, and Peter’s eyes _widen_. The small vibrator was one thing, but _this_ —

Michelle’s previous plans were to use it earlier but hurriedly hid it once Peter came crawling up her building. Still timid, she asks what he thinks about it, about her, about her hiding it...about _the toys_.

He’s probably breathing too deeply than what’s acceptable, the thought vaguely passes his mind, and his attention zeroes-in on her. After following a nod as her answer, his words come out slightly jumbled and rushed, asking what she’d plan to do with the dildo, hinting for her to go forward and share her fantasy in detail.

Glancing at his growing erection, Michelle’s confidence also rises. She shifts on the bed, straightens her back which pushes her small breasts forward, fingers teasing the hard rubber tip of the dildo. “I was going to...to imagine it belonged to _someone._ ” Her chin tilts down as she watches him through her eyelashes.

In a poor attempt at sitting calmly, Peter’s Adam’s apple _noticeably jumps_ and she has to physically restrain herself from snorting or exhibiting anything other than what would crack her very _cool_ and _sexy_ expression. Or, more like her _attempt_ at sexy.

Twenty-two and horny as hell, Peter’s mouth is drying like a desert in summer as he asks, shakily, “oh. Who?”

“Just a guy I know,” Michelle teases. Playing her guise, she slowly slides a fist up and down the dry silicone.

Again, Peter breathes, “oh.”

He’s enthralled by her hand, she sees. It makes her stomach knot happily.

“Some guy,” he comments, envious and forcing himself to speak, to provide some type of contribution to this torturous conversation. “He must,” and he swallows at watching her hand quicken, his imagination _too vivid_ where he can practically envision it being him instead. _Oh, God_ , he wishes it was him instead. “He must be really lucky.”

“I dunno.” She smirks. “Sometimes he can be a real dickwad. Or an idiot. It depends on the day and weather.”

Peter can’t help but grin and chuckle.

“But he’s really sweet and his heart is in the right place.” Her hand moves faster. “But sometimes, I wish I could, I don’t know, _do something_ to make him _happy_ too.”

Her fist begins twisting at the head of the dildo, and Peter noticeably swallows this time.

When her last sentence processes, Peter’s eyes break from their daze. “You do just fine at that.” He’s unintentionally broken the flow, eyes enormous and adoring.

Michelle lightly laughs, her front completely broken. “You’re supposed to _play along_ , Peter.”

“Oh, sorry.” Shifts his position on her bed, he attempts a stern expression, ignorant he’s made his rising boxer’s tent prominent.

His attention is on her hands so he doesn’t catch the flicker of her gaze or how it darkens after, under closing on her goal. Michelle bites her bottom lip—but only for a millisecond; she can’t let him see or know, not now.

“So,” Peter continues, slowly choosing his words, carefully controlling his racing, racy thoughts. “What’s... What’re you planning to do? ...To _him_ , I mean.”

Her grip on the dildo loosens. “Well, one thing I’ve wanted to do is hold him like this.” And she finds a firm, amateur grip around its base, tentatively brings it to her lips. Her stomach performs little flips of nervousness, anticipation, and squashing a sudden rise of insecurity from having her years-long crush now in front of her, finally, infatuated and practically naked. The reminder of it very nearly causes her to break composure—but she does grin a little. “And I’d tease him a bit.” She slowly kisses the dildo’s tip several times, slow and cruelly teasing.

Peter’s nostrils flare with a sharp inhale in time that he too bites his lip.

Michelle makes eye contact as her tongue darts out to flick, taunt, and then slide flat across the permanently erect head. “But I’ve wanted to know what he _feels like_ in my mouth for a long time...so I’d like to try _that_ out.”

He’s breathing deeply now, she sees, and knows she’s got him now. Subtly, she hopes he’ll let her this time.

So, keeping firm eye contact, Michelle attempts to lay out the final lines in her trap by enclosing her mouth around its head. Slowly works it deeper into her mouth—shallow, but enough to make her boyfriend gasp quietly—eye contact breaking momentarily to put in the effort to moan and concentrate on attempting to perform a slow show. She’s clumsy but makes up for it in confidence. It helps with seeing her boyfriend—she’s never enjoyed that word as much than she does now—become _visibly aroused_ , him shifting on her bed hopelessly attempting to contain his worsening erection and his very obviously _longing_ stare.

And Michelle thinks it’s the most rewarding thing ever, a wonderful tag-on to her crush-turned-reality.

When she licks her tongue from its base to tip at a leisure pace, her chest _soars_ catching a yearning whimper slip out. Her hand then returns to jerking off the dildo like before. “Something like that,” she concludes with a smirk.

Peter swallows. “You’d do that?”

“Mmhm.” She leans back, her shoulders against her headboard, forgetting the dildo to the bedside table for her hand to lazily rub between her thighs. She breaks eye contact to sigh heavily.

“God, MJ... “

He’s breaking, she sees. “I was also going to...you know, since it’s a toy and all...”

Peter’s gaze alternates between her face and her fingers sliding between her moistened lips. She decides to grant mercy and bends one knee to provide a wider view.

“I was gonna lube up this bad boy because...” Her hanging sentence doesn’t need an ending to be understood: she’d been hot, ragingly horny, and impatient—for him, for time, for what’s probably _improper_.

Across from her, Peter watches as if in a trace and the space between then suddenly feels too wide which needs to immediately close. He’s begun stroking himself over his boxers.

“I was so horny today,” is murmured in a rough voice and then _sighs_.

And like she had been fantasizing earlier that day—all day, when she’d ignored several morning alarms, thinking about the coincidence of her desires while scrambling eggs for breakfast, when she’d sat through hours of college lectures while sucking too hard on the straw of her blended caffeinated drink (with two shots of espresso, as always), fantasizing throughout her commute back home with thighs pressing together, speed-walking to her door, throwing off her jogging pants and checking her toys’ batteries before jumping into bed. Like she’s been fantasizing all day about the man next to her, Michelle wishes them both to be drunk off of lust for the rest of the afternoon.

Unable to stay content with only watching, Peter kisses her, deeply, on his own accord, doing all but applying his full weight on her. And when she finds his hand, she guides it to between her legs, silently instructing for him to continue. Long fingers rubbing her over her underwear in earnest, matching the beat of their heating kissing. Michelle’s hands that were wandering—nails gently dragging down his chest, dipping south into the indents of the muscles on his stomach—freezes as he begins paying special attention to her clitoris, like the times before, and Peter hears her _groan_ , he thinks, he _swears_ as her hand hooks around the elastic of his boxer’s waistband. She tries to pull them down, she _really does try_ , but her arms become jelly and her mind grows fuzzy as his finger’s movements quicken and he nibbles her earlobes.

She’s breathing hot and heavy, wraps her arms around his and presses her forehead to his shoulder, whimpering in affection while he’s vaguely aware of his own breath catching and shaking from above, and his hard-on brazenly probing the side of her thigh. And Michelle, being the grown, steadily confident woman she is, musters enough brainpower to ask for him to slow down, uses the momentarily clearing of her mind to lower her hand, palming him slow and testing, circling around the peak of his erection. She’s nervous when he elicits a surprised gasp, and taking the sound and her boyfriend burying his face into her neck as a sign to pursue, Michelle repeats her move twice, four, six times until he’s lightly rocking his hips into her hand.

She smiles, in seventh heaven.

Peter moans. Michelle smiles wider.

His hand having stilled between her legs, Michelle pauses her own motions to grab his wrist and press his palm against her soaked sex, a silent reminder for him to continue on. Only when he resumes, albeit slow and unsteadily, does Michelle wrap her hand back around his erection to slide along its length.

His fingers drag between her slicked vulva lips, extracting a hum. Two fingers are rubbing her clit in light, fast circles, and Michelle’s back bows, forgetting his hard-on to clutch at his biceps for an anchor, her gaze once more dazed as she moans, loudly. He shifts his movements to slide two fingers inside her while a thumb on her clit, and the sight of his girlfriend simultaneously locking her limbs around him while beginning to melt into mush is its own prize.

And if he didn’t need to concentrate so much, Peter would let himself give in to the desire of immersing himself to get her off, to perhaps get _himself_ off too.

Michelle’s arm is still draped around his shoulder, the other’s fingers are tangled in the side of his hair, and she’s completely preoccupied as his mouth lowers to her underwear, stops completely when his teeth nip at her hipbone before beginning to slide down her blue lace panties with his teeth. Once they’re mid-thigh, he sits up and she kicks them off; in that pause, they make eye contact, Peter sees just how blissed out she is. It’s enough to make him realize just how far gone she is but himself as well and it permits him to finally slip away into that immersing cloud of lust.

Out her bedroom window, the afternoon sun starts to set as the golden hour approaches. Their attention is only on him kissing with passion, releasing a fraction of the lust pint up from separation during the holidays. She angles her head and moans into his mouth, it vibrating down to his tonsils and her hips roll in time so that his long fingers inch closer to that sweet spot inside her that makes her temperature _rise_ , makes her shake and quiver and gasp, loudly, unrefined, and shouts his name. Her legs, previously spread to full, clamp close on instinct. He beams as he leaves her lips to create a trail of loving but impatient kisses down her neck, alongside where her bra’s strap is beneath her shirt. Hikes the hem to trail down her stomach. Pauses to inhale and terribly attempts at grasps the last of his conscious thinking, it lasting seconds, and Peter’s eagerly lowering his mouth to her bridge of her underwear and kissing inside her thighs, around the lace, across her pelvic bone. He leaves a final prolonged kiss to her clothed pussy. She gasps, heart fluttering, nervous and impatient, pressing a fist to her mouth as an embarrassing mewl slips out.

But Peter hears, despite her hoping he wouldn’t. Instead of the expectant teasing, he smiles and admits, “I missed the sounds you’d make.”

Michelle’s cheeks bloom a faint red beneath her beige skin, spreads across her face. He remarks that it’s the cutest thing she’s ever done.

“Shut up,” comes out as a groan, blushing intensifying. “That’s not very sexy of you.”

Haven risen from between her legs, Peter wraps her in his arms and she’s able to _feel_ his rapid-fire heartbeat. Then he attempts to lean in for a kiss but she scrunches her nose and reels away, knowing he’s just made out with the wet spot on her underwear; he’s confused but doesn’t pressure her for it, settling for kissing her neck instead, and earns low whimpers in reaction as her hands on his overheated chest start sliding, searching south for his dick once again but she becomes horribly distracted once he lightly bites into her skin.

Outside her bedroom, one of the college women she shares this dorm-apartment with has left her cellphone in her room, it ringing on the desk at a call. The caller tries four more times before ending.

“I have an idea,” Peter breathes, excitedly. “I want to try it on you.”

“Try _it?_ ”

“The toy: your vibration.”

He says it so calmly it _shakes_ her. She isn’t anticipating the earnest in his words either but Michelle ultimately shakes her head, vision settling and catching the mischievous _twinkle_ in his eyes. “That wasn’t what this was supposed to be—”

Peter cuts her off, leaning forward for a haste kiss on her cheek. “I know.” Hesitates to presses his mouth to hers again, only making the kiss brief per her invitation. “I know; you want to return the favor—but I have this idea—” He kisses her again just as she’s starting to reply. “—Hear me out first—and since giving you pleasure gives _me_ pleasure. It really, _really_ does. I promise!” A hand finds the dildo abandoned on the bedside table and gently pushes it a few centimeters away.

“Peter—”

“I want to try and make you cum—by myself, but with toys on you.”

This time, Michelle doesn’t _need_ him to silence her with a kiss; this time it’s the whirlwind of her emotions, the majority being lust and surprise.

“It’ll be fun,” he insists, flashing his signature smile. “I really,” inhales, and she sees him beginning to _blush._ “I really want to make you cum.”

It’s then she’s finally able to think of an appropriate response, slouching across her bed sheets. “You already have. Like, three times already.”

“I meant _today_.”

Her features become serious now. “This isn’t why I called you over here—”

“ _Please, MJ?_ ” His chest rests on her thighs and he’s looking up at her, mustering the biggest fucking _puppy eyes_ that he _can._ “I wanna make you feel good.”

“Don’t _look_ at me like that!” She turns away, refusing to fall for this trick of his for the umpteenth time.

Ever since she admitted some years ago that his _pleading eyes_ are a weakness to her, Peter’s taken advantage of it on every instance he can. And she _hates_ him for that. She hates it _more_ that she ever mentioned it to him because now she’s reaping the consequences.

“Don’t you _dare_ looks at me with those puppy-dog eyes, you _jerk_.”

He stifles a giggle. Takes her hand again and brings it to his mouth where he listlessly, licentiously gives her finger a suck. The action makes her inhale sharply, shutter, surprised at his continuous string of boldness and falls for his plan.

“You’re mean.” She bites into her bottom lip, eyes growing heavy once more.

He removes his mouth to reply, coyly, “only for you.” He inserts two fingers into his mouth and earns her shifting her seating and a short, needy noise.

“Peter...don’t...”

“You want me to stop?” He’s sitting up, concerned.

“Only if you keep using my weakness against me.” Her thumb runs across his lips.

He chuckles. “So, can I make you feel good, MJ?”

He earns an eye roll, a loud mock-groan, and a purposely sarcastic, “I _guess_ so.”

His grin grows into a wide, toothy smile.

“And don’t smile either.”

Chuckling, he proceeds. “Whatever you don’t like, just say, and I’ll stop. Alright?” A hand slides up to cradle her neck, leaning in close for another kiss. “I’ll take it slow.”

“You tend to do that a lot,” is whispered against his lips. She’s already begun to melt again.

Peter hums, not replying further to not stall the moment, and Michelle lets herself get lost in his touch and warmth which she’s missed so much. Closing her eyes, she taken into the clouds by his mouth’s carefully calculated trail beneath her ear, down her neck, to where her neck meets her shoulder. She breaths deeply and easily while his hands cradle her neck’s nape, then slides into her messy hair once his mouth travels, and lightly grabs a handful of her wavy curls. She practically doesn’t hear his mutter about how she smells so good, always, like chocolate.

She smiles to herself at this, remembering how he’s always been fascinated at this since high school. (And then him randomly mentioning it in high school before becoming fixated on _how_ she smells similar to chocolate. And then Michelle finally revealing it just last year that all she uses is cocoa butter lotion. She holds in a laugh remember how _scandalized_ Peter had looked.)

When he makes it to her shirt’s collar, he stops. Asks, “would you mind taking your shirt off?”

Pausing only to do so, Michelle pulls Peter back down to press his fluttering, flushed chest to hers. He moans a bit about her bra rubbing against his skin; her nipples are felt through the cups. So close, she doesn’t miss his murmur: “You’re so hot.” And her stomach twists happily but she still scoots away, a little timid and battling a surging wave of self-consciousness.

But he doesn’t let her get far, retaining the no-distance by keeping their noses touching. “Your lips are so soft,” he adds. “And I love your skin. You look beautiful. Still. Always have.”

His horribly hidden trip over his words earns a brief snort of laughter. Michelle welcomes him back with her arms encircling his neck, his coaxing hands and words calming her storm to subside.

In time with his mouth moving ardently against hers, Peter’s hands are slowly, carefully, gliding up her sides, testing to see how far is appropriate. He feels her overheated skin beneath his palms and the faint protrusions of her ribs as she sucks in her stomach to max degree. Catching this, he briefly tickles her sides until she stops and bursts into laughter; once regaining breath, he nudges her nose again, reminding her to “breathe.”

“I like this bra too.” His fingers rise up her sides again, stopping just before brushing against the fabric.

Michelle sighs. Whispers, “no, keep going.”

It’s serene and erotic and torrid in her bedroom. The sun hasn’t yet begun to set and the late afternoon light hasn’t yet reached her window. Peter mentions that her bra matches her powder blue lace panties, then asks in a tease if she’d matched just for him before texted him earlier.

She replies in the calmly spoken jab, “don’t get bigheaded.”

Hands ghost over her small breasts, taking his time to feel up the lace material, her nipples hardening underneath his palm. To his luck, his setules don’t stick and cause a scene.

“Enjoying yourself there, tiger?”

“Very.” He gives a testing squeeze, files away the short gasp she releases into his memory notes for later. His teeth travel to her bare shoulders. Speaks low enough for only for her ear, “God, you turn me on so much.”

Following her gasp, sees something that makes her gaze lower, that makes her smile, blush, and coyly comment, “I see you’re _really_ happy about this, too.”

This time he doesn’t take her staring negatively—it doesn’t stir horrible flashbacks or feelings. Rolling off to lay on his side, he’s staring lovingly with a large smile. “I said you turn me on a lot. And you’re just so—”

“Hot. Yeah, I’ve heard that one before, too.”

Peter’s smile vanishes but he continues watching her downcast eyes. “That’s not just it.” He searches for the right words but none sound appropriate, none of them seem to _fit_ his feelings. “You’re...” He tries, pauses for a noticeable amount of time. “Exquisite,” he uses one he remembers her saying, once. “Showstopping. _Spectacular_.” It earns her perturbed stare. Peter sits up to brush aside hair that falls in her eyes, them lowering once more. “You’re perfect.” When she doesn’t give a look or reply, Peter becomes frightened. “MJ?”

“Uh huh.” She nods.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she lies.

“You don’t seem fine.” He’s picked up on the telltales of her moods over their years shared and reminds this. He also tells that he _knows_ she’s lying. “I think...it’s not really your roommates that you have issues with right now, is it?”

She glances at him again before sitting up properly.

He remembers when he’d spoken praises to her before in this bedroom and how she shrunk away after—he verbalizes this as well. “You know how much I adore you. And I wish I knew how to show you how sexy I think your body is because, seriously, you’re a knockout!” He chuckles.

The smile she gives is small but it is just enough. Peter turns her face to his with a finger then reaches to hold her hands in each of his.

“And I think...” His voice trails, becoming bashful. “I think you’re... _really_ amazing and I just want to make you happy.”

“But Peter, you do. I’m just nervous.” She pauses. “About _me_.”

He’s confused. “If this is about like last time about your hair, it doesn’t—”

“No, this isn’t like last time.” She waves her hands, urging him to stop talking, entirely embarrassed now. Michelle inhales, gearing herself to confesses a grueling truth she wished to keep secret for as long as possible. “I’ve never...never...gone this...um, _far_ with—with… The most that I’ve done was handsy things—fingers—and got a tiny bit of oral but never the whole _nine yards_. And the toys—” She stops abruptly and doesn’t continue.

“The toys...?” Peter urges.

The apartment’s front door loudly opens and closes, a roommate returning. Peter’s gaze flickers from her door then back at her.

“You don’t exactly _hear all the time_ about showing them on your first time together.”

“Well this would be our _third time_ if I was counting correctly.” He squints, hoping that a sly to be comment helps lighten the mood. “ _Or_ , I can count that one time you were _practically_ undressing me with your _eyes_ when you met me at the gym. I think it would be a fair qualifier.”

She’s shocked and hits him on the shoulder in play, both erupting in giggles. “I thought you didn’t notice that!”

“Oh, _I noticed_. And those spandex shorts you were wearing, too.” He smirks.

“You’re such a dork, you know that?” the question rhetorical.

“And this dorkiness is all for you,” swiftly pecking her lips.

“Just for me?” Her eyes close, rests a hand on his shoulder, allows herself to fall back onto her bed, continuing.

“All for you.”

“Will you show me,” she whispers, caressing his cheek.

It takes some time because both quickly become too lost in each other again, but eventually Peter provides her “proof” with reminding about his hard-on.

In one of the apartment’s bedrooms, Michelle’s roommate answers her cellphone clearly in an irritated mood. She isn’t polite to whomever is on the other end. When she finally storms out her bedroom, Michelle’s hands are guided to wrap around him and she’s slowly stroking him over his underwear until he’s as horny as she wants before she stops. Meanwhile, he’s been pleasuring her breasts pulled from her bra.

As his mouth lets go of her nipple, the roommate is heard storming into the kitchen. Michelle’s momentarily skipping heartbeat is commented about as Peter’s trailing down her stomach; forcing her to remember the little _superhuman_ things about him. But she’s _scared_ to ask how long he’s been able to hear her pulse and if his enhanced senses truly effect _all_ his senses. She blushes _profusely_ watching him nearing her thighs, catching him inhale and the sides of his mouth twitch upward.

 _Jesus fucking Christ_ , she thinks, tossing her head back onto the pillow. Her hours of masturbation have left her more prepared and sensitive than presumed; a small part of herself regrets it.

“You okay?” she hears him ask, and Michelle screws her eyes closed.

“Mhmm.” There’s a prickliness of his hands today that she’s suddenly acutely aware of, coming down from her high. And, there a worrying thought that’s tagged along that one but it evaporates when she sits up on her elbows just in time to see his mouth lower to her panty-line, nipping at her hips, one palm sliding underneath the curve of her ass to _squeeze_.

Then Michelle _forgets_ those dots of realization as this superhuman man does very human things to her: rerouting her to be one-track-minded, filling with endorphins, her chest rapidly rising and falling watching him lower his mouth to her sex and then begins to suck. Michelle claps a hand over her mouth just in time to prevent a startling shout. He’s pulling from filed memories about what gets her going quicker; he eats her out until her shaky moans slide into uncouth groaning. Then slides two fingers in her pussy, it dripping down to his knuckles. Peter notices his breathing is unsteady as well.

“I miss the way you taste,” is whined and feels her walls squeeze his fingers.

His words provoke her hands to cart through his hair and he’s obscured from seeing the slight show of a blush on her face.

When he’s knuckles deep, he notes that she’s _quieter_ than times before—instead, she’s sweetly humming, enjoying his slow movements. Finally caving in to the screaming, raging desires, Peter’s head ducks. Her slaps a hand over her mouth again, legs bending at the knees and thighs a squeezing vice around his temples as he kisses her sensitive bundle of nerves, licks, then wraps his arms around her left thigh and eats his denied meal.

Michelle assumes that toy-use will be after this—not like she’s _complaining_ , though.

Directing his ministrations to firmly sucking her clit, he’s pulling sonorous wails from her. In the dorm-apartment, Michelle’s roommate hesitantly looks around but doesn’t call out to the sound.

“Fuck, you’re delicious,” Peter mutters, words muffled by his girlfriend’s heat, making her blush nonetheless. His mouth shows love to the rest of her apex, loving her hands clinging to his hair, palms slide up to grab her hips. “You’re so sexy, Em.” His hands grip tighter as his tongue dances magically, eyes closing halfway in concentration.

Michelle tries to allow herself to relax—or, well, _forces_ herself to by his grip and focus on quieting her sounds, and succeeding. Barely. Not really.

On her bedside table sits a digital clock, its glowing, red numbers beginning to glow in her bedroom as the golden hour light bathes her room. Peter’s hands grope, coming to rest with a secure grip around her mid-thigh while Michelle’s staring at the popcorn design of her ceiling—but isn’t seeing anything. When her boyfriend looks up, he can’t help but simpers at her shivering form, a hand firmly pressed to her mouth, containing all her shouts and whimpers.

When the bedside clock reads that a good seventeen or so minutes have passed, Peter breaks away, living up to the claim that he adores her body. Michelle isn’t going to last for much longer.

“Your smell is so delicious,” he pants, ignoring the moisture from his kisses are slowly dripping down her leg. “Are you liking this?” he asks before applying open mouthed kisses to her pussy lips.

Michelle’s answer is a keen, guiding one hand to return to her left nipple where he gladly shows it attention as well. Mouth travels up her stomach, hips, and nibbles at her panty-line before returning to immerse himself in her intoxicating center.

His movements aren’t as ecstatic as before, now simply enjoying the closeness and her scent and warmth, letting himself get dictated by his lust instead of trying to direct it. But unlike previous sessions, this time he speaks his mind, admitting without fully-functioning forethought: “I’ve been thinking about eating you out since November.”

Michelle needs a moment to register his words. “So, like, since Thanksgiving?”

“Mmhm,” is all he answers, still concentrated.

“Where you really thinking about me while at the table? With your family?” she giggles, sitting up on her elbows. She’s baffled but also flattered.

“It would have been the perfect meal, having you on the table instead,” he comments, very much still distracted.

Michelle thinks she needs an icepack for her face. Relaxing back again, she doesn’t know what to say other than “Oh” and let him continue with his work.

“Don’t worry. I made a point to mention that it’s a false holiday.” It’s one of the bits of random information she’s shared with him years ago.

(When sharing this with his family on May’s side (those who served turkey breast, pumpkin ravioli, and mushroom risotto, who pinched his cheeks and occasionally spoke in Italian), Peter was teased by an older cousin over the information but met with gratitude from the rest of the family.)

Impatient, Peter folds Michelle’s legs back, bending them at the knees and towards her chest. She yelps, shivers once he wraps his arms around her thighs and uses his fingers to spread her labia lips open. Her face feels as if it will burn off from the intensity of her blushing.

Beside her clock and plugged on a charger, her cellphone vibrates, going unanswered. It’s a text message from a roommate asking if Michelle has taken a specific course, and if so, would she mind sharing her notes.

Still fully intent on bringing his girlfriend to orgasm, Peter grows nearer to his goal when sucking on her clit and mumbling, “sweet pussy. ‘S my pussy.” The vibrations of his words makes her knees press together. He licks her outer labia lips, nips her inner thighs, and smacks the side of her ass, moaning to himself in pleasure as he continues.

“I could eat your pussy all day.”

She groans, back arching slightly, hands tangled in his hair. “Please do!”

He chuckles. “I’m going to make you cum so hard...gonna make you make a mess on these sheets.” Gives a particular _hard_ suck to her clit and her back bows high enough to lift her head from the bed. Feeling proud and quickly to not disrupt the flow again, Peter licks two fingers before alerting that he’s going to slide them inside her—reacting noise and death grip to his hair soaring his confidence. Breathes coming out unsteadily, the young man can’t help but grind his hips into the bed.

And remembering how she enjoys dirty talking, he mentally rids the gate blocking his thoughts to his mouth. “You like it when I finger-fuck you and suck your clit at the same time?” It’s less of a question and more of a cocky comment.

But the woman no longer tries to keep herself toned down, now loud and vulgar beneath her hand, which is enough of an answer he needs.

“Keep those legs together.” Peter secures a leg with his free hand to sit securely over his shoulder, opening her up more for him. “Keep it nice and,” he licks once, working his fingers against her squeezing muscles, “tight for _Modest Peter_ , okay?” Teases her beyond the nickname by sucking with his tongue.

Inside her decently-sized bedroom, Michelle has little focus on anything that isn’t the man between her thighs saying that he loves it when she clamps her legs around his head. That she’s dripping off his chin and he loves it. That she has a “perfect, pretty pussy,” and, “okay; you can spread your legs now.” But she’s too far gone to obey.

Peter grins when noticing this, when he sneaks a glance up to her head tossed back, body tensing up in instinct.

“Cum for me. Please? I want you to cum all over my face.” It’s spoken as a beg, voice slightly quaking and his hips working against the bed, and as if he is currently dry from the nose down. (He isn’t.) “I don’t want to waste a drop. Your pussy is so fucking good.”

She doesn’t realize how _loud_ she shouts until she’s floating back down to reality and lifts her head to see Peter grinning down at her _suspiciously_ prideful.

She rolls her eyes, collapsing back onto the mattress.

“How was round one?” he inquires, all too sweetly, kissing her cheek.

Michelle can feel that he’s just wiped his face dry. “It was...” A hand caresses the side of his face in answer, as a compliment, more focused on the importance of breathing.

He radiates like a puppy with a wagging tail. Lays his head on her breasts to listen to her heartbeats.

Within Michelle’s small apartment, she’s not _friends_ with the three other college-going women but they get along relatively well— _well enough_ that there are no arguments or fights; the most they have had are disagreements about space in the hallway closet because two of them brought large vacuum cleaners but there being room for only one.

So, Michelle rightfully doesn’t want to disrupt that streak of good luck and prays that her roommates have either left the apartment or are asleep.

She asks if they are all gone, punctuated by a short gasp as Peter squeezes a breast enough to make them curve and fit into his hands. Michelle repeats her question since he ignored her, too focused on now mouthing his way across her small breasts.

“No one’s here,” he finally answers, rearing up to nibble below her ear.

Her mouth goes dry. “I should check—”

The front door slams closed in departure due to the wind—a roommate was still here and just left. Michelle turns fearful eyes to him; to ease her, Peter stands from the bed, quietly opens her bedroom door, creeps a few steps down the short hallway to listen to the entire apartment. When he returns, locking her bedroom door for extra measure, he excitedly breathes, “all’s clear! No one is here.”

“Wait!” Hands raise. She jumps out of bed, fixes her breasts back into her bra, excusing herself to the kitchen where she pulls out two capped water bottles, and just before closing the door, spots the forgotten bottle of alcohol in the back. Stands in the open door for more than what’s probably healthy until coming to the decision to take several gulps from the bottle before returning to her bedroom, very grateful that the apartment is now empty.

Uncapping one water bottle for herself, the other she hands to her boyfriend, watches him empty half of it in one go. Once capping his, he jokingly winks at her. Michelle balls a fist, looks away, and face burning once more.

Like before, Peter takes her by the hand and pulls her to stand between his legs, now sitting on her bed’s edge, and kissing beneath the band of her lacy bra. At times she’s truly marveled at his devotion and adoration—watching him nuzzle into the space between her breasts and hums. Michelle rakes nails through his scalp, the act intended to be loving but forgets in that tragic minute how dangerous the act is, and is startled at Peter suddenly, firmly grabbing her ass. The glint in his eyes makes Michelle reel a little bit.

“Ready for round two?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _you made it to the end. all 15 pages of it. wow. I really shot myself in the foot with this one._
> 
> _I continuously mulled over this chapter for months and months, rereading and rewriting. as a fresh pair of eyes, please tell me how bad or decent this is, so far. is it realistic? is it not? was this a sort of "natural ending" or not really? any thoughts or opinions at all? lay it on me._
> 
> _the new couple will continue to "woohoo" in the next._


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _hello! sorry this is a day later than promised._
> 
> _here is the last chapter to this fic. yay! woo! finally, I know! this is also the longest chapter to make up for it as well as for the wait. I hope you all enjoy_
> 
> _I'm starting to think maybe I should have broken this chapter in two..._
> 
> xoxo

Peter’s searching between the folds of her blankets, soon finding what he’s looking for.

“I want to start slow,” he proposes but she’s hardly listening, his hands and mouth leaving her to float back down to earth once more, following post-orgasm stimulation. Fumbling at first with the little vibrator, he turns it immediately to its second setting and presses it directly to her clit before she’s fully able to comprehend single-number multiplication equations. 

Her immediate response is a shout: her back rising from the sheets and her to gasp, clutch at the blankets, convulse in front of him.

Michelle’s immediate reaction is yelling for Peter to “ _stop!_ ” And, fearing he’s done something horribly wrong, something that _hurt_ her, he clicks the toy off, spouting apology after apology, and tosses her vibe to the sheets like his hands touched fire. 

She lies on her bed for seconds that feel like hours, chest heaving, listening to the strings of “I’m sorry, MJ! Oh, God! I’m so sorry! I did it too hard, didn’t I? Jesus—sorry, I’m—I’m so sorry!”

Once regaining her breath and her vision, she _shhhh_ -shushes him, gently, still quite dazed. “Pete, you gotta,” she inhales a lung-full. “You gotta stop going in so hard like that—” Rests a hand on her chest, needing to feel her own pulse. Exhales. “—After so much foreplay. Or—or after just—just finishing.” She coughs, once. “The girl’s still sensitive.”

He apologizes and admits that he hadn’t looked past his own eagerness, letting it get the best of him. She accepts his apology as long as he “kisses her better,” which he happily does, of course.

In the midst of it, she’s stupefied to hear him murmur, “Sorry, lil’ MJ.”

But her shock only lasts for seconds. Michelle scoffs “ _what?_ ” which transforms into chuckles.

“I gotta make her feel better, right?” He runs a flat tongue across her bundle of nerves and Michelle grips his hair as she eases back into the bed.

Michelle’s roommate who forgot her keys is knocking on the door, too far to hear when Peter finally pulls his mouth from Michelle’s pussy and tentatively places her vibrator beside her clit, it turned on its lowest setting. And to hear her wail and see her quake beneath him fuels both his confidence as well as his salaciousness. He speaks sweet words of encouragement to her, for them both.

Michelle attempts to stay focused— _she really does try_ —but the vibrations become too much and she’s too overwhelmed, pulling at the blankets, throwing her head back and gasping for mercy at the need for a break. He clicks the vibrator off. Blinking, her brain’s slow to process Peter’s words, floating around like mist in her head.

“How are you doing?” she registers his question.

She can only muster a nod, still drinking in air. Finally answers a breathy, “I’m good.”

“Okay.” He clicks the vibrator back on. “Ready?”

She readjusts herself to get comfortable and nods when she’s done. Since neither heard her roommate’s knocking and knowing her apartment is still empty, Michelle doesn’t see the need to hold in her cry when the vibration returns to her oversensitive lips. Semi-hovering above her, Peter supports himself by his elbows, is biting his lip as he glances up from between her quivering legs to watch her abdomen heave, rapidly. Then he clicks it off to study the way her breasts sag to her sides, the vague reddish coloring the dusky, dark brown of her nipples, her hands grappling at the blankets needing an anchor, hair frizzing and beginning to lose any type of style it managed earlier.

“So, this has four speeds,” his voice pops the fog clouding her brain. “I’d love to try them all out and see how you take them.” It’s a request that she would rather him not ask due to the intensity of her blush nearing unbearable. “I’m not going to do anything to hurt you, but let me know if I should stop again.”

Trust has been earned years ago, but his consideration hits somewhere deep within her chest that makes her relax completely, nod, and coolly grants access.

Thumb messaging her gently, Peter’s welcomed to a kiss on the mouth as he runs the toy against her once again. It’s on the lowest setting still, sliding up and down her, circling her clit. Breath hitching, Peter remarks that she seems to like his actions, takes that as an invitation to pursue.

His movements don’t quicken as he increases the vibrator’s settings. It makes her end the kissing, noises dulling to whimpers which she attempts to quiet by pressing her knuckles to her mouth and turn away from seeing Peter’s lips stretch into a smile. In the next minutes—exact unknown, only that when Michelle’s mind clears enough, she registers in that brief moment that the golden hour has nearly completely ended—after Peter’s had his fill, accompanied with sensual kisses to her pelvis and inner thighs, does he click the toy off.

She can still fill the ghost of its vibrations down her legs and across her vulva. Her thighs quiver when he leaves a departing kiss, making her weakly whine.

Car headlights are now mandatorily required outside due to the setting sun. A dog runs past her building, barking loudly, followed by its owner’s seconds behind. A car alarm goes off in a nearby parking lot and Michelle prepares for the expectation for Peter to lift his head, change his course of action, and sprint away to aid the trouble. But he doesn’t—entirely focused and immersed in the small vibrator in his hands, he’s completely uncaring about anything but its tiny settings and the woman’s opened legs before him. Michelle doesn’t think he even _hears_ the car alarm or the loud pounding of metal, then its sound distorted.

Taking advantage of his distraction, she drinks in the sight of him shirtless—which she shamefully hadn’t before, fully, _shame on her_ (but to her defense, she had been quite _distracted_ )—and she feels her pulse skip. Watching the monetarily tensing of his biceps, she bites the side of her bottom lip. Then catching that the vibrator’s leopard prints are extremely dampened, her cheeks feel as if they will burn off.

The young woman is heavy-lidded and dazed, reaching out to grab his shoulder, wishing to bring him down to lay atop her in a kiss. He doesn’t budge at first, her pull too weak, but upon pulling his attention from the toy, he leans into her, too hypnotized to object. Michelle makes a point to lift her hips and grind her knee against his very clear full erection. The reward of driving a moan from him helps clear her mind a little more; Michelle is then exaggeratedly driving her knee into his crotch, rolling her hips and the evidence of his work slicking down his bare thigh in effect. Peter’s waning, hair-thin self-restraint is shown in the form of the inhumanly tight grip to her blankets in his hands, his trembling body on all fours above hers, a quivering lip between his teeth and his brows drawn together in a strained, near painful-looking expression. And his whimpers, _God_ , his whimpers.

Michelle adds pressure with her knee. Propping herself by an elbow, grabs a handful of his curls and pulls back, _hard_ , forcing his jaw to drop—because she remembers a morning-after Q&A that she’s needed to put in extra force with her muscles to equal his moderate strength—and the sensation of both his erroneous zones makes him screw his eyes closed, erupting an unfamiliarly vocal moan.

“ _Fuck!_ ” he groans, after. Gasps. “Oh! God! MJ, stop,” he whimpers as she pulls his head to the side, exposing his neck. “I’m gonna—I’m gonna cum, if you keep that up.”

The tip of her tongue flicks against his earlobe. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He hisses, she biting down on his ear. “Not fair.”

“Totally fair.”

“But I’m not—this isn’t what—”

“I have plans too.”

“But I called it first,” he whimpers.

She kisses his ear. “If I let you continue, will you let me return the favor?”

His breaks through the lust-filled haze at her words, body freezing for a moment.

He’s submerged back beneath that haze again by her nails dragging across his scalp. He gasps, cursing. Nods. “MJ— _God!_ I’ll—I—I— _please_? I wasn’t done—with you. Not yet.” His eyes squint open, musters enough to remove her hands by her wrists. She pouts, calls him mean, cries as his fingers tickle her ribs for several excruciatingly long seconds, successfully regaining the dominant hand. After coming down from their laughing high, Peter’s pulling her by the legs to rest between them, kissing her slowly and sensual again, tongue against hers. It doesn’t occur to her to scrunch her nose again.

“Okay,” he draws away. “Now I want to stick it inside.”

“Inside? The—the toy?” she asks. “Why?”

“The G-spot.”

“You’re really dedicated to this, aren’t you?”

“Of course! Anything to make my _girlfriend_ hit three orgasms tonight.”

“ _Three?_ ” She’s more than _a little_ shocked.

“Yup! Three is the number of years it took me to realize you were crushing on me. And how many Christmases you spent at your new home—before moving for college. And it’s the number of New Year’s we spent together. It only seems appropriate.”

“That’s... _oddly_ considerate of you...”

He’s beaming like a golden retriever at the anticipation. But seeing she’s starting to tense again, leaves a chaste kiss on her nose. “I’ll slide it in slow, okay? Just the tip first.”

A snicker follows. “Did you really just say the most _cliche_ —”

“Yeah, I know, I know.” He laughs. “Do you want to critic my seducing or do you want to cum again?” Leans forward to kiss her once more.

Humming, she smiles. “I think I can do both.”

“You can try.” Peter smirks, clicking the toy on but her confidence evaporates, becoming visibly self-conscious. So, he clicks it off and asks what’s wrong.

It isn’t that she hasn’t done the act before, with the vibrator, she clarifies; what makes her timid to the idea is _his presence_ , that this is quite literally a fantasy come to life, that he _knows_ about her toys and is the one using them on her. Hiding her eyes beneath her hands, she admits that she just doesn’t know how to handle her crush— _boyfriend_ , she corrects, the title still unfamiliar—she doesn’t know how to handle this. But she _isn’t_ objecting, that is made sure.

“I won’t do anything to hurt you,” is repeated in a whispered while kissing the tip of her nose then her cheek. “Tell me if I should stop, Em.”

“Uh huh.” Michelle nods, incredibly certain that her face is burning off.

He tries to do it smoothly while kissing but fails, needing her to guide him to her entrance—and Peter swallows thickly, has a hard time determining whether to focus on her hands sliding the vibrator inside or the face she’s making.

“Fuck,” is all he can formulate.

Michelle’s cellphone chimes at a text message via group chat. This time, it’s from a different roommate who says she’s forgotten her house keys and if anyone is home, could they open the door for her when she returns.

Michelle is too distracted at the lulling feeling of the vibrator stimulating her to full arousal again to care. She hears her boyfriend become enamored with it all and clings to his shoulders. But then all too soon, she’s nearing her second finish; she can feel it whenever it nears her G-spot, but it’s too short at this angle, at Peter not inserting it all the way. Lifting her hips with a swivel, Michelle works against every motion to have him insert it deeper inside.

It’s already on its medium setting. And once noting her actions, he raises a leg to his shoulder so she’s spread open in a comfortable “L” shape, and corrects himself. Her sensitivity from her first orgasm paired with her returned arousal and the vibrations hitting her sweet, toe-curling spot makes her second orgasm sneak up on her in a flash. This time, there are faint dark spots in her vision when she cums, and she’s louder than before, clawing for her headboard.

Peter runs his tongue across his teeth, watching his girlfriend’s back arch, hair messing up even more against her pillows, and he can’t believe it—his dick _jumps_ , he can’t believe it—she even fucking _whimpers_ for him.

“ _Oh_ , my _God!_ Peter, _please!_ ”

His dick jumps, pulsates, weeps for her. He’s so hard it’s almost distracting, unable to withstand from stroking himself. His own eyes growing heavy, Peter becomes lost in himself, listening to his girlfriend’s aftershocks, and is stunned when she offers to help him out, her slowly grounding from her high. But he declines, while still stroking, to remind her that he promised _three_ orgasms and she’s just rolled over the hill of her second.

The sun had set and the streetlights came on long ago so the city lights illuminate Michelle’s pout poorly.

A break is needed; he rolls off of her to click on her bedside lamp, and she reaches for her water bottle with shaking fingers. As she drinks hers, Peter downs the rest of his bottle in seconds. Afterwards, she takes in her bedroom for the first time that evening: Her book bag is slumped against the wall beside her door, sweater tossed across the back of her desk’s chair beneath the leggings she’d worn to class that day. She doesn’t remember where she left her shoes. Or her keys. Or the granola bar she planned on eating in between sessions because she planned to be _alone_ —she hadn’t expected him to swing by _so quickly_.

Michelle clears her throat. The atmosphere has shifted.

“Do you mind if I…”

He doesn’t get it at first. He’s returned to her side and she nudges his arm off her waist to sit up, swings her legs over the edge of the bed, tosses her hair from her shoulders. Breathes a few steadying breathes. Attempts to stand up, legs buckle, and she falls back to sit at the edge, bewildered.

“What’s wrong?” She hears from behind.

“I was just... I want to get some more to drink.” Peter glances at the quarter of water left in her water bottle, so she clarifies. “Not that.” Tells of the bottle of alcohol she downed earlier because of her nerves. Doesn’t catch the twitch of his eyebrows arch downwards or how his lips tighten for a millisecond; what she sees is when he’s ironed those features, joking about how they both could use a drink, strolling out into her empty apartment in only underwear.

On the edge of her bed, Michelle runs hands up and down her thighs nervously, inhales a lung-full and exhales insecurity. Presses her face into her hands, feeling the burning heat of her blush, and smiling behind her palms.

Peter’s feet stick more than normal to the kitchen tile, and he notices. Michelle’s requests of their first night together and today of her wishing to return the favor ring in his head. It shouldn’t be a big deal, he tells himself; it’s normal, expected, and he should be _grateful_ , Peter thinks to himself, but still, he grips the fridge’s handle a little too tight and nearly breaks it.

Eyes landing on the bottle behind tubber ware and unopened juice, Peter takes it out and swishes its contents. Takes a swig, feeling the alcohol slide down his throat and make his body bloom with warmth. Takes another swig. Takes a gulp, concluding that they both could use it, carries it back to the bedroom.

She’s waiting for him while scrolling through her cellphone. Upon his entry, she smiles, and then her gaze flickers down to her current topic of interest. Though it has decreased in mast, it’s of little bother to her, imagining getting it to raise again.

“Hi.” Michelle does her best to exhibit _sultry_.

“Hi,” Peter sighs. Half of the alcohol’s remains he drank before returning.

* * *

Round three is much slower than its predecessors. By the time both young adults resume heavy petting, the alcohol bottle is emptied. There’s an uncapped squeeze-bottle of lubricant sitting between them. Michelle’s hand drifts to Peter’s waistband, finally hoping to get a turn, but he unfortunately stops her by gently grabbing her wrist and puts her attention on pause with the reminder that her turn isn’t over yet.

He doesn’t mention or even hint at it, but on top of him being a pleaser, Peter is hoping that he will either tire her out or that she will _forget_ about the offer. A thin chance, knowing MJ, but still worth a shot, he presumes.

And, so far, it’s working.

Michelle rolls on top of her boyfriend—and her heart drums, skips, butterfly flutters—breaking away from him, reaching to her bedside table to grab the abandoned dildo. His eyes widen and hers crinkle in a smile, winks. Rolling back onto her bed and lowering her torso on top of him, she revels in his wide, questioning stare as she pecks his lips. He’s awaiting an explanation, of what to expect. She places the toy between them besides the bottle of lubricant.

After she’s managed to distract him until she’s rolled underneath him, she can’t help but giggle. Then lifts her hips to grind against his, and he _chokes_ , holds in a moan feeling her guide his hand to where she needed him. Earning a whine of want as his hand begins to work, Michelle brings his head down by her encircled arms, nibbling and kissing his ear, down his neck.

When she’s ready, she guides Peter’s hand to the lubed dildo’s base. Peter breaks the kiss to glance down, then up in her eyes, uncertain and confused and _excited_ , still. She swallows for courage, trying not to let her stare waver. When she positions it at her entrance, Peter just about loses his mind. It’s bigger than the vibrator and is a distracting purple, and her desirous stare makes his vision tunnel.

And as she begins pushing it in, her hand over his, her back arching off the bed just enough to brush her erect nipples against his chest and her reactionary moan loud and airy, Peter’s pretty sure that he _did_ lose a piece of his mind to her ecstasy.

He thinks he forms words, or that it comes out as an incomprehensible noise lost between a beg and astonishment, but he isn’t sure. His mind zero-ing in on the stump of the dildo still outside her entrance.

Michelle finds that she doesn’t _need_ to guide him any further: Peter slides the toy in, whimpers another “ _Fuck_ ” feeling her body take it in, drinking in the hypnotic sight of his girlfriend— _his girlfriend!_ —splaying herself out from underneath him. He hooks an arm beneath one of her knees and raises it high. He drinks in her sounds like he’s parched.

Near experimentally, Peter slides the toy out, studying the way her body reacts and responds. Becomes mesmerized when she reaches to grip the pillow beneath her head. When the sopping noises of her body’s excitement grow louder after she instinctively tries to wrap her legs around him. And when she slips out a ragingly needy “ _Fuck me!_ ” Peter shutters.

It’s unintentional, judging by her immediate embarrassment.

At this realization, Peter grins. “Whatever you’d like, m’lady.”

Nearly breaking from concentration, her eyes snap open. Glowering and growls, “don’t.”

“Sorry, sorry.”

She relaxes and closes her eyes again when he angles his wrist inserting the toy at a point that makes her instantly curl her toes and tightly clench her pillow. Soon, he slows his pace.

“Do you like how that feels?” The man’s transfixed on watching how she’s slipping back into the clouds. “This is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. You look so good, so fucking sexy. You turn me on so much! I’ll do anything for you!”

She whimpers for him to go further, to insert the toy to the hilt.

“As you wish, babe,” he tries this time—and she doesn’t object—continuing at the leisure pace. “I love to please you. Let me take care of you,” he pleads. “I want to make you feel good.” Her leg in one of his arms tries to wrap around his shoulders to bring him closer. “I love seeing you enjoy yourself like this, watching you take this toy, watching your pussy spread like that— _goddamn_.”

After he’s slid it back out, Michelle gestures for him to lean closer so she can bring his face to hers for more kissing. The leg around his shoulders tugs him forward, impatiently.

“I want you, Peter,” she breathes. Then, pulls away to glare at him. He still has an unwinding grip on the toy, its tip resting just outside her vagina. “ _But,_ if you don’t stop acting like you have to be slow and careful, I swear— _AH! FUCK! PETER!_ ”

Knowing Michelle has its perks: he knows her favorite genre, her least favorite dishes, and wear she keeps her favorite clothing; over the years, Peter has developed a one hundred paged mental folder dedicated entirely on his years-long crush. Recent additions to that folder include knowing how to please her and what gets her flustered or wet. It’s one of his new small pleasures in life—Peter grins at her trembling figure at her shortened comment, his movements change from leisurely slow to the fast paced governed by his own eagerness.

Her toes curl. Michelle holds on to her pillow for dear life, head thrown back, her desire that’s to be fucked by him is fulfilled. His mouth leaves reddening ellipses on the swells of her breasts, his arm flexes from the ministrations. He can feel the work of her muscles around the toy with every stroke. It is an intense feeling that engine’s jolts of lightning up her spine, to her fingertips and down to her toes; it evokes sobs and turns her face to press into the pillow, pleading to be fucked, for Peter to fuck her, _please_ , to keep fucking her.

And if he didn’t need to concentrate so much, he would have let himself give in to the desire of getting her off, to perhaps get himself off too, but he’s also as diligent as he’s a pleaser.

His pace slows to allow his gaze to sweep the blankets, sliding the dildo out and allow his girlfriend to breathe. Once finding what he’s looking for, he fumbles with the little vibrator. “I want to use this vibrator on you too, okay? I want to use it at the same time.” 

Michelle swallows. “Oh... O-okay,” she eventually forces out, voice sounding a tad hoarse.

He lowers. “You ready?” Is smiling a mischievous, _devilish_ smile.

Michelle swallows, nods when she is. But still, when he turns it on and presses it to her clit, her body _jolts_ at the sensation, as if suddenly struck. She shouts, muscles tighten, and he relishes in her yowls.

Peter circles her clit with one hand and she sobs. “Seeing you lie there with your legs spread open is so fucking hot.”

Outside, a loud motorcycle roars past, however all the elated woman hears are the filthy, dirty words her boyfriend sighs to her as his hands assist her to nirvana. She also isn’t aware of the time passing, so by when Peter takes the vibrator away, only five minutes feel to have gone by. (However, it is less than that.)

“I really want to stretch out that pussy tonight.” Peter sounds like he begs, like he’s straining or preventing himself from expounding. “Baby, can I use the dildo again? Are you ready for it?”

She rasps a needy, “yes!” And watches him lube it up. Wets her lips, still has a hold on him, fingers curling into the lower bicep of his still arm. Once he’s finished and asks, “ready?”—albeit, following her instruction about how much lube is enough—Michelle wiggles and adjusts her slumped posture and rubs a flat hand over herself for comfort. “Slowly in…”

Her mouth falls open for a loud, throaty groan.

“Oh, yes... Look at those lips spread…goddamn. Your pretty little pussy, your pretty little pussy.” Peter’s taken from his concentration by the tug on his arm and she’s drunkenly forcing her mouth onto his. He loves her so much that he smiles into it. “I want to fill you up. Oh, God.”

The force of her kiss presses her teeth against her lips. “Please,” she mewls. “Fuck me,” earns a moan from him, desperate and turned on as she is.

Angling his head, he opens his mouth to her, his motions guided by her again.

The digital clock on her bed side ticks away the minutes into hours. Michelle’s cries are accompanied by Peter’s own moans and futile hip thrusts into the air, climbing to a volume with continuity that begins irking the neighbors. She pulls at his hair when he dips his head to lick where the vibe had been just a minute before. Her ankles cross, hands claw at her headboard. Peter knows that humming around her clit sends her close to the edge and so he does just that, undisturbed within the tight brace of her thighs, thickened by college dietetic consumption. His ears turn red at her reputations of obscenities; he’s placed the vibrator just above her clit, right by his nose being tickled by her course curls as his tongue continues to work. She tosses her head to the side; Peter pauses to sit up to get an eyeful of just how _wanton_ she looks, and his dick throbs.

He thinks of a joke pertaining to her repeating calls on God but her crossed ankles behind his back jerk him forward and her death-grip on his hair prevents the joke from ever surfacing. His hips grind into the bed instead.

Pressing the meat of her hand into her mouth, her body twitches and trembles, squeezes and ripples beneath him as she pants and loses all sense of time, location, and anything outside of her nerve receptors.

“Oh, you’re so sexy. God, you’re so fucking sexy.” 

Outside, the street lights are on and the moon hangs in the sky. Streaming through her opened blinds, its light blends in with the warm light of her bedside lamp.

Peter uses his fingers to tease her labia and rubs her clit, kisses it, and then returns the vibrator. To immerse to glance up again, he misses the glint of moisture at the corners of her eyes. All the while, he’s continued to gently thrusting the dildo inside her.

“I love watching your pussy lips,” he sighs in bliss. “I love seeing you take it.”

A hand has wandered to her breasts which she palms with aimlessly. Her legs are bent at the knees, lifting them up and leaving her open like a blossomed flower. Unlike so, the inside of her bedroom is anything but placid and at peace. It doesn’t occur to her that her roommates will be back at any moment if their schedules hadn’t changed.

“Baby, I want to make you cum so bad. I want to make you cum all over this toy.” His tongue flicks her clit, making her jump. “God, I love seeing you shake. Keep playing with your nipples; I love seeing that.” Peter gives one last departing lick before sitting up, her hips humping with force, a tell that she’s close. “I want to go faster, okay? I want to put it deeper and faster inside you, okay?”

Michelle whines with acceptance.

His voice is shaking by now. “Baby, I want to make you cum. Will you cum for me?”

Outside, a neighbor returns from walking his dog and nosily leans his ear to the apartment’s locked front door.

“Yes, baby, yes! Cum for me! please, cum for me!” Peter begs further. “God, I want to see you cum. I want to see you cum so badly.”

Her third orgasm makes her think of water, of force, of a tsunami. She feels the build up from her toes and the base of her spine; she _feels_ it coming on but the _force_ of it is startling. It makes her screw her eyes tightly and her muscles to tighten as if wanting to squeeze Peter flush to her front. It makes her _scream_ , makes her gasp for air. Ears ringing, seeing white behind her eyelids. Makes her shout again at its intensity, at how _slowly_ it rolls over her. The aftershocks aren’t as intense but are strong enough to make her shiver as if she’s cold.

Blinking to regain her senses, she misses Peter’s purrs: “Look how wet you are—this toy is dripping. Oh my God, let me kiss it, baby.” But she does feel his mouth on her labia for a final time.

She winces from the sensitivity, whimpering. He asks to know her comfort and state to which she pants, “I’m alright.” Still blinking, Michelle feels herself pulled against his chest and the muscles of his arms wrap around her. He kisses her hair. She's growing aware of how sweaty she’s become.

His chest rumbles as if he speaks but she doesn’t quite hear, sleep suddenly pulling at her with an unshakable grip.

She faintly hears, “Thank you so much for letting me do that for you,” and a joke about maybe doing more, perhaps including more toys, but a moment later, she’s fast asleep.

* * *

What startles her awake is the blood-chilling fear of having missed a class, but a beat longer she remembers that it’s Saturday and she technically has the day off. What Michelle realizes next is that she’s pressed up against a warm but naked body, and a blush returns to her cheeks. Carefully lifting her head, she watches Peter peacefully slumber above her, one arm around her shoulders, one hand resting against his bare chest, hair in need of a comb. And maybe a brush, too.

Her lamp had been clicked off. On her bedside table, there sits four water bottles—three empty, one completely full and unopened. The noises of her roommates shuffling through the kitchen is faintly heard past the space and city ambience.

The day before comes flooding back to memory, causing her pulse to skip a beat. Reminiscences about it fills her with giddiness, her face heating further, and her chest swelling at joy and satisfaction of it all. The experience was not colored by fear or negativity by her four-plus year-long fantasies involving her crush becoming true, albeit in the most unpredictable way possible.

The morning sunlight brightens her room, the rays not yet reaching her bed, and Peter continues to quietly sleep underneath her. 

Thinking back to the second day of his stay over (since her roommates had been out for three days), she remembers the sun filtering in from behind the bedroom blinds—having moved from the living room because the couch wasn’t large enough to cuddle with blankets and pizza. She remembers doing double-takes and her heart doing double-flips when registering she’s laying on Peter’s chest then, similarly to how she’s doing now, and then her smile that grows rapidly and broadly once witnessing his opened-mouth sleeping face. And now her nose wrinkles at the sleep lining her teeth and the likelihood that his breath isn’t any better than hers this morning.

But still, she’s determined and goal-oriented and she’s zealous on keeping her promises—“I want to return the favor”—so Michelle snakes her right hand down from his stomach, takes her time to take in the feel of him, the muscles hidden just beneath his stomach’s skin, one line of the V-shape directory and the light hairs beginning its trail to her prize beneath the stretched, lazy pants he’d evidently borrowed. The pads of Michelle’s fingers press into his hips, his thighs, and takes in as much as she’s allowed, having never been this close before in this way to her best friend— _boyfriend_ now.

Peter stirs once and Michelle freezes, afraid that her examination of his thigh muscles had woken him up. He falls back asleep with a light snore, and then he’s quiet again, heavily breathing in sleep.

Michelle snuggles her cheek to his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat.

Her fingers of her exploring hand trails slowly back up his inner leg until she feels the crease of his boxer’s sleeve, until she feels what she hopes will be her morning’s prize.

She blushes—Michelle is of-age and she is far from naive and she’s grown, and she _blushes_ at feeling Peter’s package.

Swallowing for might, she listens for any signs from him—a stir, a gasp, a groan, a laugh—but doesn’t gain any and so she steels herself, inhales for confidence, and trudges on.

Tentatively, her hand wraps around his length and begins pumping. She repositions to be able to speak into his neck, hoping her words and kisses will be enough to wake him up ready. Her hand rolls his scrotum in her hand—because she’s read that guys like that, right?—and alternates behind fondling and stroking him.

She thinks she wakes him up when she begins sucking on his neck with teeth, cooing, “Wake up, Peter,” and finally feeling him hardening in her hand. She’s definite she’s woken him up when she lightly bites his ear—she knows because she hears his breath hitch, feels his entire body tense up and _freeze_ and snatches her working wrist in reflex-like, whip-like speed. To Michelle, it happens in half of a full second, tops.

Michelle pulls her face from the crook of his neck, darting up, and at first glaring then staring bewildered at his clenched jaw and vacant, glossy-eyed stare of bleary fear. And then she watches him ease out of his trance, emotion and character flooding back as soon as he registers it’s _her_. With an apologetic look, Peter releases her wrist, but the damage has already been done. Michelle rubs her skin, wounded in more than one way, staring at him with a look that’s almost frightened.

Peter swallows, registering it. “MJ,” he calls, reaching out for her.

“What was that?” She’s already scooted out of reach and is sitting on the edge of the bed.

“That—that was... That was... Um...”

“You _keep_ doing that, you know. I let _you_ touch _me_ but you—it’s like you _refuse_ to let me touch you. What is your deal, Peter?”

His gaze falls, searching among the hills of the blankets. “You know I’ve let you.”

She takes a moment to think, clearing from the emotions and sleep. “Yeah,” she admits. “But never—never _intimately_ like I’ve _let you_ , three times now.”

He can only muster a huff, the slightest of head tilts.

Then she chuckles in that deprecative way when she’s either stressed or left in disbelief. “Wait. Don’t tell me,” she shakes her head. “You’re not some megalomaniac who’s all ‘I can touch you but you can’t touch me’? Please tell me you’re not some wannabe Christian Gr—”

“God, no!” His face scrunches up in disgust, understanding the reference from a previous rant of hers.

“Then what is it?” She looks from over her shoulder, open and hoping for honesty. At that moment, the noise in the kitchen quiets, followed by the front door opening and closing. Michelle listens for a minute longer to the rest of the apartment. It’s gone quiet as if her roommates have both either left or gone to their bedrooms.

“It’s,” Peter starts. Pauses. Watches her sigh. Stand. Rushes out a “sorry, MJ, it’s—” as she’s raising hands to her cheeks before searching through a dresser drawer.

She finds a pair of legging pants and Peter tries again as she shimmies into them.

“It’s not you.” He’s rolling out from the blankets in time to catch her side eye.

“Well that’s comforting,” she rolls her eyes, heading for her door. “By the way, that’s a lie.”

“Em, I’m serious!” He followers her out.

Striding to the small kitchen, she disappears into the refrigerator. “Then what is it?” Pulls out a carton of eggs, her shoulders shrug with anxious emphasis.

“It’s—it’s hard to explain.”

She places the carton on the counter. Finds a bowl. Is roughly cracking open three eggs into it while her hands begin to shake. Insecurities are rearing their ugly heads in her mind—she thinks about Liz Allan-Toomes, about Gwen Stacy, about the week-long fling with a girl nicknamed Kitty, about the other pretty girls of his past, and Michelle thinks momentarily about the immature few she’s been with and how they sweet-talked her into envisioning an eternity with them being gold, especially during a break up—but she forces them down just like she’d done then.

“ _‘It’s hard to explain’_ like you trying to be in two places at one time? Or like how you thought _’it’s hard to explain’_ about you and Johnny Storm? Or is it like you ‘drunk dialing’ Gwen when you two broke up?” She’s whisking the eggs with more force than what’s necessary for the small bowl.

Peter presses his lips in thin straight line. “It isn’t like any of that.”

“Then please enlighten me, Peter.”

“I—” He doesn’t know how to say it or how to even _start_. Is fiddling his fingers.

It’s not new news that all of Peter’s past relationships never worked out—it’s explained as incompatibility, as separation due to schooling, as just _falling out of it_. What _isn’t ever_ explained is the sexual complications they all had, behind closed doors.

Michelle clicks on a stove burner. A pan clangs on top. She sprays Pam nonstick on it before pouring in the whisked eggs.

“It’s not easy to say,” he admits, wringing his hands, legs rigid and eyebrows sloping.

Leaning against the counter, she urges, “can you _try?_ ”

A thousand and one thinks fly through his mind, imaginations about what-if’s and possibilities about his delivery, about her reactions, about whether her roommates will come in then, if they are _overhearing_ , about whether their phones are going to ring or if there’s a fire alarm or _any kind of unrealistic outcome_ , ever. But for a reason he himself does not have a sensible reason for, Peter does the worse thing possible right now: he lies.

He says that it his unorthodox reaction was due to a _nightmare_ he was having. Which _would have been_ believable if Michelle doesn’t point out again, that what he’s exhibiting is a pattern—she nearly dumbfoundedly realizes that whenever she’s tried touching him intimately before, he distracts her or forces her hands away, and in the kitchen, she rightfully questions him.

Her eggs are halfway cooked and, because Peter has brittle confidence and he’s a man after all, he runs on a sort of autopilot by avoiding the question and becoming defensive—and Michelle reels her neck back at his tone, caught off guard because _she thought_ she was asking a simple question. Her eggs are cooked to perfection, he smells, and hears her increased heart rate if he concentrates hard enough, and feels his chest feel like it’s been crumpled in a fist and he spouts, “It’s not you, Em, it’s just difficult, I—I’m sorry—I,” and then he’s dashing out her front door, guilty and involuntarily panicking, still wearing her borrowed pants, the rest of his clothes and Spider-Man outfit balled in his arms.

* * *

Their contact goes ghost for the week following—expectedly, unsurprisingly—between winter semester finals and the approaching holidays. On a Wednesday two weeks before finals, Michelle sends a good-natured text wondering his status, if he’s okay. He doesn’t reply though her phone shows her texts have been read.

Michelle sends two more texts between then and the following Tuesday until she vagues her trouble to a close roommate and she’s advised to not stick her neck out for a man who leaves her on read after such an intimate experience. She takes the advice to heart—while staring at her phone on the subway and wondering what happened, what she’d done wrong, said wrong, and notices the odd coincidence that Spider-Man has also gone m.i.a. and a red-and-black mercenary with twin katanas steals a mic from a reporter for the 12 p.m. news to try to put out an A.P.B. for his “little spider buddy” which makes Michelle blink with astonishment and confusion.

Michelle puts her roommate’s advice to action, which is easy to do while becoming swamped with homework and studying. She tries to not let it get to her—to let it get to her _too much_ —so she further distracts herself with Netflix and discounted specials at restaurants and her roommates do a good job of it, too, until one brings over her girlfriend and the other breaks up with hers and then Michelle’s professor emails her about a necessary redo on an essay worth forty percent of her grade and personally schedules an office hour visit beforehand and then Michelle’s _parents_ call because her father thinks it’s more productive to waste gas on a trip to “visit” that’s truly just a disguise to bring work with him, _and then_ when Michelle hasn’t slept for more than five hours and is running on her third cup of coffee and a croissant, she runs into May—

Michelle runs into May Parker on a day she’s the photo-esque example of a “burned out, highly caffeinated college student during finals week.” But the woman embraces her and is glad to see her all the same. For a second, Michelle worries the jogging pants she’s wearing or her haphazard high bun is a giveaway enough for their meeting, knowing that May liked to _talk_ , especially about Michelle. Specifically about Michelle—because, since senior high school year, the woman has been a not-so-subtle advocator for her and Peter, elbowing her anxiety-ridden nephew in the ribs to muscle up and approach aloof Michelle. Luckily, she doesn’t. At least, not for _too long_ —she shares that she’s shopping for Hanukkah materials and ingredients (“It’s almost Hanukkah already!?” Michelle harshly whispers) and she’s been wondering how the date with Peter went.

Michelle blinks, dumbfounded. “Date?” she asks before she thinks to keep _private_ her recent meet-up, gives it was anything but a date. “Oh. Yeah. That.” She nervously scratches the back of her neck. Rubs a finger over where a lasting hickie healed just a week ago. In the dark of her bedroom, sometimes she feels the ghost of his teeth on her shoulder.

“Did it go well?”

“Yeah, it went well. Great—it went great, even.”

“Good,” May sighs in relief. By now, Michelle has accompanied the woman on her stroll through the store. “I was beginning to worry,” she mutters.

Michelle frowns at this, confused. “What do you mean?”

This unintended for her to hear, May blinks away her wide-eyed shock and sheepishly returns to searching the shelves. “Oh just—you know—he’s liked you for so long. Since high school, even.”

Michelle’s head tilts. “He’s never told me that.” She’s thought it was only since college. “Also, why were you worried?”

As it turns out, none of Peter’s “past flings,” as May put it, had worked out—“there was this nice girl a few years ago but it ended messy, he told me” (whom Michelle knows as Gwen Stacy) “and I was beginning to _worry_ with this _friend_ of his that he was... _oddly close to_. But all I remember his name being Johnny. Johnny-something.”

Michelle squints, frowning further.

“You two are sweet kids so I hope it works out,” she repeats the same sentiment she has for the past five going on six years.

To be fair, Michelle has had her own attempts at flings, so she doesn’t feel like she is anywhere to judge or be jealous. But reminiscing about Peter’s visit, Michelle rubs her wrist—it no longer hurting but the memory leaves a wound on her confidence.

“Mrs. Parker, can I ask you something? Peter’s been...I’m concerned; he’s been avoiding and distant all of a sudden. Did he _say_ anything—did something happen?”

“I thought it went fine! You just told me—”

“It did, it did,” Michelle calms her rising concern. Her gaze flickers to the silver hairs growing out from her hairline at her temples. “It was...it started after we kissed.” She’s known May for years so _she hopes_ they have grown comfortable enough to discuss such matters about her nephew.

But all Michelle receives is a slight side eye. “Was it more than kissing?”

The uncertainty is replaced by dread.

Michelle hesitates. “No.”

May tries to hide her giggle behind an exaggerated sigh. “As you know, Peter’s a complicated...young man.” Very mother-like, at times it’s uneasy seeing her nephew— _her_ boy—as a grown man now. “And of his past,” she pauses, “it’s not my place to say.” She closes by hinting that Michelle would do better asking Peter directly because she doesn’t feel like she’s at liberty to speak for him.

Coincidentally—or not, if Michelle knows May—Peter texts her back early that following morning.

* * *

(5:43 am) **_MJ we need to talk_**

(5:52 am) **_Please?_**

(2:04 pm) _Read_ _✓_

(4:44 pm) _Why does May think you asked me out on a date? I saw her just now in the store_

(4:45 pm) _By the way Happy first day of Hanukkah_

(4:47 pm) _I guess text me back when you can_

* * *

Nightmares wake her for three days in a row. She has a humanities course which her brain isn’t able to comprehend, for the first in many months, then a pop quiz is given which she fails. There is another elective course which she spaces out throughout the entire lecture.

When she slinks off to the restroom and pulls down her pants, faint red ellipses decorate her thighs, pulling her mind to that night, of the crushing morning after. To the rocky unorthodox start. Of how she’d dove headfirst into a craggily-emerged relationship and got burned in the process. She pulls up the hems of her shirt, more evidence reminding her. Tears prick her eyes. She doesn’t _think_ she has a reason to, yet she’s hit with an unsuspecting tsunami of being exploited and is sobbing behind a handful of tissue on the restroom toilet, feeling exactly like the little high school freshman girl who barely had any friends.

By the time she’s cleaned herself up and the swelling in her eyes aren’t as noticeable, she’s missed most of her class and decides to skip the final twenty minutes.

Michelle avoids her roommates, feeding on tubs of ice cream and _buy-one-get-one-free_ packs of cookies, wishing she hadn’t drunk the last of the alcohol then. She curls up in sweatpants and hoodies and deep washes her blankets, sheets, and pillows, but still doesn’t sleep in her bed that following day, having fallen asleep suddenly crying while on the carpet.

She feels like she’s been used—but, _sure_ she’s friends with Peter and she’s liked him for years and he’s apparently too, but there’s still the little girl in her mind wondering that maybe there is something undesirable about her that makes him refuse to let her touch him, that he only wanted it all to be one side. It’s her fragile insecurity and self-confidence she’s let win.

By pure coincidence, she’s awoken from the floor by an aunt video calling. (It’s the same aunt who offered tea and cookies at Thanksgiving.) Michelle lets it time out and end before phone calling—it’s for a younger cousin’s birthday. After singing, albeit while clearing her throat, Michelle is asked how she’s been. And it must have been her voice still cracking because her aunt seems to pick up on her immediate fallen emotions, and for the first time, Michelle shares her stories—with great censoring, of course, necessarily—and that she doesn’t know why she’s suddenly been feeling so depressed.

Her aunt’s general psychology degree pays off as she reveals how Michelle’s emotions tie into her confidence, childhood, and something that has to do with societal influence that makes Michelle space out with how _obvious_ she feels it should have been. And also dusting off that degree, her aunt asks her about the run-in with May Parker, given Michelle thinks it began right after. She reveals that May had said Peter had liked her for a long time, but her feelings cause her to misinterpret and project a false negative reasoning to all of this.

Her aunt urges her to text him one last time, if just for an answer.

* * *

(12:47 pm) _I was thinking about something_

(12:47 pm) _May said that you liked me since high school. Is that true?_

( . . . )

(12:50 pm) _I’m off for the day and by myself so yeah_

(12:51 pm) _I saw you typing Peter. It gave you away_

(1:05 pm) **_Yeah its true_**

(1:07 pm) _Why didn’t you ever tell me_

(1:10 pm) **_You were going out with Damien at the time_**

(1:27 pm) _You know I never liked him right? Beyond a little crush that barely lasted for a week_

(1.30 pm) **_I do now_**

* * *

She’s caught in the stampede of college students exiting her lecture course when her phone rings at an incoming call from Peter. Staring at his name as she loiters in the hall, she answers on the last ring.

He sounds vaguely out of breath and a commotion of sound muddle his voice. At first, she thinks he’s gone out patrolling again, but glancing at the time on the top of her screen shows that he should still be taking classes.

“No,” he answers, catching his breath. “I was—I was crossing the road.”

“Jaywalking?”

“Not if anyone sees.” A distant truck horn blares from his end.

“Wow Peter. You’re a little delinquent now?” she jokes.

He smiles. Then, changing the subject, asks, “listen. I—I wanted to know—I want to ask you,” he pauses to inhale, to take a breath. Michelle assumes he’s running to his next class. “If you can come over in a couple days?”

Catching herself before giving an automatic answer, Michelle takes a pause to scan the contents of a nearby vending machine. She hasn’t forgotten their last meeting and that he has yet to give her an answer—and she tells so.

He speaks in a rush. “I was a jerk, yeah, but I want to—I’m gonna make it up to you.”

This catches her off guard; she’s filled up three pages in a notebook, front and back, of questions and speculations and presumptions ready to throw at him—“this isn’t fair” and “I feel a bit used and like this isn’t equal” and “you’re hiding something” among them. Stunned, she stares dumbfounded at the dints in the foil chip bags held behind the coils. Someone snuck a Crunch bar far behind five bags of Lays—or, someone _forgot_ to take it out; who knows how long it has been there?

“MJ?”

She breathes, thinking of a response.

On his end, Peter curses under his breath. She imagines him running a hand through his hair in an anxious tick. “Don’t... Don’t be...”

She gives a sound that she’s still listening, followed by her response. “Not unless you tell me what is up with you,” she finalizes, remembering what her aunt encouraged. “That’s the only way I’ll come. Other than that—”

“Makes sense.”

And then there’s a pause as if waiting for either to speak further.

“I can come over later today.” Thoughts begin churning in her mind. She’s remembering with relief that she has that notebook shoved in her book bag. “Meet you after classes, and you can explain everything?”

His words aren’t coherent—garbled, stammered, inattentive and tense. Michelle squints at a couple emerging from around a corner, the woman slapping the guy’s arm from her shoulders and begins to hiss at him.

“I—uh—I can—I can—actually, could you come over the day after tomorrow?”

She huffs. Michelle watches the couple approach the building’s exit door. The man raises his hands in a clueless manner while wearing a mean smirk. The woman pushes against his chest, almost forcing him to the floor, before stomping out the door. He calls after her, truly shocked now and seeking forgiveness.

“Day after tomorrow’s fine,” Michelle says. Turning back around, she witnesses a student drop stacks of loose-leaf papers he’d just copied.

“Okay,” Peter sighs. “See you then.”

“Yeah.” Michelle clicks _End Call_ without waiting for further response. She wraps her hands around lithe body, the thick sweater providing minimal comfort.

For the next two days, her concentration and procrastination only get worse; all she can think about are the things she wants to say, the questions she wants to ask, realizes it’s still within the days of Hanukkah and becomes more impatient.

On the second day, she wears a nice shirt with a pressed pair of jeans and sneakers and rides the subway immediately after class and strolls to May’s home in Queens borough. Peter texted her to meet him there. She’d taken the initiative for her wear, still not wanting to make a bad impression despite her feelings. However, she isn’t expecting for a large, potbellied man to swing open the door and regard her with a thick accent she can’t exactly place. His large hands lead her inside May’s small apartment, it filled with older men in blue sweaters with ‘Challah!’ knitted across and older women in winter pants and matching sweaters. She passes by three elementary-aged children having a very stimulating game of charades.

When her eyes settle on May, Michelle nearly runs to the woman. She begins introducing Michelle to Ben’s relatives who are in the kitchen, spinning her by the shoulders and speaking before Michelle even has a chance to. Only afterwards does May reveal that her nephew was currently attempting to fix a cousin’s broken electronic.

“They always bring their broken electronics or toys here knowing he’ll try to fix them for free,” May tells, a small warmth in Michelle’s chest beginning to bloom. “If he has the parts, that is. You know how he is.” She waves, all too familiar about her nephew’s component-hunting schemes.

“Yeah,” Michelle sighs.

“So what brings you here?”

“Actually, Peter asked me to come. He said he needed to—”

As if on cue, he materializes at her side, sliding his hand into hers, beaming a smile at her with a greeting, Instead, Michelle tenses at his side. The ends of Peter’s smile diminish; he noticed. But May doesn’t, inviting them to mingle, but is politely interrupted by Peter needing to talk to Michelle privately.

The journey to his bedroom is an extensive, mind-spinning experience of Michelle being introduced to practically every man, woman, and child because on every step, someone else shows up. Some nod politely, some nicely comment about her hair and Michelle strains a smile. Others shove plates of latkes and cinnamon apple cakes and warm greetings, making her more exhausted.

Once shooing his cousin out his preserved bedroom and locking the door, Peter begins: “First, I—I—I gotta say—no, I gotta _start off_ with saying sorry, MJ.” They’re sitting on the edge of his very squeaky bed, the sleeves of his blue-striped button-down rolled up to his elbows. He’s learning forward, elbows on his knees, fingers fidgeting disorderly, gaze trained on the carpeted floor. “I was—this isn’t how it was supposed to go. _None of this_ should have happened this way—”

Heart dropping to the floor, Michelle plants her feet firmly. “You called me over here just to break up with me?” She’s baffled, she’s—

“No. I called you over here because we’ve known each other for years and you’ve never met my family. Besides Aunt May, I mean. And now that we’re—you’re my girlfriend,” he corrects himself, timidly taking her hand that’s closest to him, “I thought it should be done...formally...officially... If you’re okay with that...”

“Kinda late to ask me that, isn’t it?” Her gaze is cutting but the end of her lips twitches up.

“Well... Uh, yeah. Um...” Instead of dwelling on his lack of words, he propels to the next part of his confession. “Also,” his eyes shift from her to one of his empty dressers, “I think we’re moving a little too fast. But I’m not breaking up with you! No, never!” He makes that part clear. “But, like, honestly MJ, we had se—we slept together before I even properly asked you out! Before this, I had a plan—I promise—it was a perfect, seamless plan and everything!” He’s exasperated, she sees, still fighting his fingers, grabbing at his hair once. “So, since we’re here now... please, MJ. I want to do it right.” He takes a hand of her in one of his, each. “Can I take you out, like, on a date? A _real_ date. _Just_ a date.” He kisses the back of her hand; his eyebrows are drawn together; he’s slightly trembling from nerves. “I want to do all the proper steps for you, with you.”

Her smile is almost sad. “I appreciate the _very_ generous consideration, but we have to talk first.” She gently pulls her hand away, back to her own lap. “I still want an answer.”

“Right,” his gaze falls. “Yeah.” Pauses. Glances towards Michelle. “It’s—”

“And don’t say it was just a nightmare. No lies.”

“Some of it _was_ from a nightmare...”

She isn’t falling for it. He isn’t going to joke or charm his way out of this one. And so, he takes a breath, leans over his knees again, staring at the floor. He fiddles with the clear buttons felt through his rolled sleeves. Rolls the pads of a thumb across his knuckles, stammering through an explanation about his own concerns, whether he could please her better than he could orally.

“You’ve already _pleased me_ , like, ten times over. I doubt you could have done anything worse.”

“Yeah, but this is different.”

He _hints_ that it’s tied to the reasons some of his past relationships hadn’t panned out. _Hints_ because he dances around the explanation, eyes shifting around the room like he’s guilty or hiding something. Michelle squints.

“Peter, is this really serious? Because if you asked me all this way just to tell me you don’t want m—”

“Of course it’s serious,” he blurts. Then, he registers what she’d about to say. Frowning with worry, he urges, “I don’t want what?”

She swallows. “That you don’t... That you don’t want...me.”

He thrown, concerned _why_ she would think that because _of course he does!_ And so, the mingling outside continues as the five o’clock hour ticks into existence as Michelle unleashes a page and a half of what she’s written.

After, she’s squeezing her hands together, her arms dangling between her legs while she’s hunched forward. “Like,” she finalizes. “I get—I guess that you’re insecure about it, but you’re not the only one.”

His expression hardens. “I’m not insecure—”

“But didn’t you say it’s the reason you had some break-ups before?”

It is, he’s hinted at it, but he becomes vexed by it instead of admitting; he denies it, that he’s a perfectly confident guy.

“Peter, that’s not a bad thing.”

“I know but—but—it isn’t that. It isn’t that.” He starts pacing. “I’m fine, I’m—” He’s scratching at his exposed arms beneath his rolled sleeves. “I just need—I just need you to _promise_ me that... That you won’t...”

Michelle leans forward off the bed. “Promise me what?”

The scratching worsens, and though Michelle noticed the faded scars there years ago, tonight she pays more attention to them.

“Just promise me. _Please._ ” His voice shakes. He’s rubbing his hands together, his pacing quickens. “Because this _is_ serious and it’s—it’s—I—I—I—”

She’s putting some of her aunt’s psych tips to use and just agrees with him because his voice is shaking and he’s _distressed_ about this, whatever it is.

“Promise me you’re not going to think—”

“I promise.”

Taking a long step to stand in front of her, she can’t tell if the force behind his words are anger or guilt, but it makes her reel her neck back all the same. The fear in his eyes is strikingly clear. So are the scars on his forearms. And something _clicks_ in her head—perhaps a memory of something read in a textbook, or the internet, or her aunt’s advice—but she’s compelled to blurt, honest and concern:

“Peter, did something happen? To you?”

He freezes, all emotion going up in smoke.

* * *

Cover his face with his hands, his breathing is frightfully ragged. He can’t bring himself to even look at her, his words’ force now understood to be from insecurity, shame, and fear—of saying this, of what she’ll think of him, of her possibly leaving him like he fears.

“His name was Steven Westcott, Skip as a nickname. He was a teenager and I was twelve years old. Aunt May and Uncle Ben were going to come home late so I was alone with him. We all thought it was okay. He was there to only babysit and tutor but... He ended up... It wasn’t supposed to... I just...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _so._
> 
> _Edit: four things:_
> 
> _1\. It is comic canon that Peter was molested/assaulted by Skip when he was twelve, before be was bitten by the spider._
> 
> _2\. I want to thank all you readers and commenters. your comments, how much you enjoyed this and its predecessor "Lust, Caution" made writing this series enjoyable. you all are my biggest motivators. I wanted to write something you all would enjoy and I hope I accomplished that._
> 
> _3\. I posted about this before on my blog but I will say it here because it could help: this is planned to be my last smut (nsfw centered) fic. for any fandom. probably ever. probably. this is because I have written them for so long (on ao3, on my deleted previous account) and I feel comfortable enough writing it that I don't feel like I need to practice. but largely because my brain just doesn't work for it now, I struggle looking for words and making it not sound repetitive. brain stopped working._
> 
> _4\. the largest reason. when I was first starting this story out ("Lust, Caution" was posted in........2018 (wow!) ) I was also reading this WONDERFUL series["Through This World I've Stumbled"](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1064939) by ChloeNyme which was being updated at the time. I wanted the Caution series to be a realistic depiction of sex without intercourse and to talk about past trauma (because the first is common irl, the latter unfortunately happens). I had the events of this series already in mind but ChloeNyme happened to have many of the things I planned in on having in the Caution series. She wrote them SO WELL, so much so I recommend you all to go read it! I love her stories so much I was at crossroads with what to do with mine for forever until coming to the conclusion to end it here. Likely. (Well, if you want a sequel to this, for now, go read her series!)_
> 
> _so that's what happened and that is why it took forever and a day to finish this: I didn't want to end up looking like I duplicated or plagiarized her story._
> 
> _I hope you all understand. I hope you all enjoy what I have posted. I have not given up on writing fanfic, I take requests for writing for other marvel characters, other AUs, even other fandoms. but I have to press End on writing smut. I hope this chapter's sort-of send off was to your liking. If it was (or wasn't) let me know!_
> 
> xoxo


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